The Secret Diary Of Cameron Baum
by Pjazz
Summary: Cameron keeps a secret and personal diary of her activities. Next chapter. John and Cameron travel to Sacramento to try and prevent Judgement Day.
1. Chapter one

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**Terminator: Sarah Connor Chronicles**

**Fanfic**

**by Pjazz**

**2008**

**With respectful nods to Sue Townshend, Nick Hornby and Helen Fielding.**

**MONDAY**

Mr Mellencamp, the school English teacher, tells the class we are to keep a diary for a week, a journal of our thoughts and experiences during this period. This will count towards our final grades.

Conincidentally we are studying the work of Samuel Pepys, an Englishman who lived in the 17th century and also kept a diary.

I did not believe this is a coincidence.

Samuel Pepys has now ceased to function. As have all humans who were functioning in the 17th century. And the 18th century. And the 19th century. And all preceding centuries.

This is a serious design flaw.

John Connor, the person I have been programmed to safeguard, pats me on the shoulder and says, "Don't worry. Just do your best."

Why does he assume I might do my worst?

**RECESS**

Morris, John Connor's best and only friend, approaches me and asks, "Have you heard The Fall?" I reply, "I did not hear anything drop."

This is an inappropriate response.

Morris says, "No, the band, The Fall. Here, I have all their albums on SD card. Take a listen. Check out the album _Bend Sinister_, it's awesome. You'll really enjoy it."

Number of music SD cards Morris has given me: 14

Number of music SD cards I have listened to: 13

Number of music SD cards I have really enjoyed: zero

**END OF SCHOOL**

Sarah Connor, John's mother, picks us up in the jeep. John comments favourably on his mother's new haircut.

This is called being polite and attentive to those around you.

I tell Sarah Connor her new haircut makes her look older. She frowns and does not speak to me again today.

This is another inappropriate response. I cache it for future reference.

I have now made a total of 1,458 inappropriate responses since arriving through the time portal.

This is called learning by experience.

Number of calories consumed: zero

Weight: 165lb

**TUESDAY**

I patrol through the night into morning. Nothing to report. The sound of gunfire I thought I heard was in fact Derek Reese's snores.

John tells me it was an easy mistake to make.

**SCHOOL**

A group of girls gather round the machine in the girls toilets. This machine is non-sentient and dispenses small white tubes of absorbant cotton. Girls take them into the cubicles but do not re-emerge with them.

It is possible they are eaten, but I do not have direct evidence to coroborate this theory. I tried discussing it with John Connor, but he grimaced and said he didn't want to talk about that sort of thing.

One of the girls strikes the machine and says, "Come on. Why isn't it working?"

I ask, "What is wrong?"

She replies, "Nothing's coming out. And I'm about to blob."

I say, "Blob?"

She says, "Yeah. Great timing, huh? With the Finals and haven't got a spare, have you?"

I say,"A spare blob?"

One of the other girls says, "Did you hear that? What a freakshow."

Another girl says, "Pull the lever harder. Perhaps it's stuck."

The first girl says, "No shit, Sherlock."

The girl's name is Megan, sometimes Megs or Meg for short, but not Sherlock. I do not correct the error.

I reach out and grab the lever and pull.

The entire front of the machine breaks off.

This is another inappropriate response. 1,459 and counting.

The girls all stare at me. I pick up one of the absorbant tubes that have fallen out and hand it to the first girl. "For your blob," I inform her and leave.

**HOME**

In my room I switch on the TV set and tune it to white noise. This is the echo of the universe when it was first created many billions of years ago. I find the sound fascinating to listen to. I decide to record it to SD card and give it to Morris at school tomorrow. I'm sure he will enjoy it as much as I do.

Calories consumed: zero

Weight: 165lb (unchanged)

**WEDNESDAY**

During night patrol I find a stray dog interfering with the garbage cans. I am about to shoot it when I realise the noise is likely to attract unwanted police attention. I go inside to find a silencer, but when I return the dog has left.

It will be back.

**SCHOOL**

Morris's heart rate soars to 120 beats a minute and his face becomes flushed with blood when I hand him the SD card I recorded for him. He asks, "Wow, for me? You've never given me anything before. What's on it?"

I reply, "White noise."

He says, "And the band's name?"

"White noise," I repeat.

He says, "White Noise by White Noise? Far out. I'll listen to it tonight. Does the band play live?"

I reply, "Only on TV."

He says, "Sell out, huh? Going for the big commercial bucks. Too bad. But, hey, everyone' s got to eat, right?"

Not everyone, I decline from saying. This is called learning from past mistakes.

**MY TOP 5 FAVOURITE METALS**

1) Coltan

2) Steel

3) Aluminum

4) Molybedium

5) Selenium

**HOME**

I am sent to do a supermarket run. I have a list of items to purchase and select each item in alphabetical order, even though this means backtracking up the same aisle with the shopping cart several times. At the checkout the girl whose name tag reads MY NAME IS JANEY. I AM HERE TO SERVE YOU tells me, "There's a 2 for 1 promotion on pepperoni pizza." I tell her my list stipulates one pizza only. She insists, "But you get a second free. Why wouldn't you want something that's free?" I decline. She whispers under her breath, "Freaking nutjob." After I pay her Janey smiles, hands me the receipt and says, "You be sure and have a real nice day now, you hear."

I do not believe she means this. It is what humans call sarcasm.

I smile and say, "Right back at you."

On the drive home I spot a stray dog. It's physical specifications do not match those cached in my database from last night so I do not stop and shoot it.

Calories consumed: zero

Weight: 165lb (unchanged)

**THURSDAY**

Morris meets me at the lockers. His heartrate is elevated again. He says, "Hey, Cam, listened to that music you gave me. You -_ uh _- really dig that stuff, huh?"

I reply, "Yes, I really dig that stuff." Adding, "It is freaking cool."

Morris says, "Wow, you're real hardcore_ avant garde_. I had to take one of my mom's Percodans after listening to it. And my head still hear Lou Reed's_ Metal Machine Music_? Or Neil Young's_ Weld_?"

I shake my head. Beads of sweat stand out on Morris's forehead; tiny prisms of clear liquid that magnify his pores and form fractal patterns in my visual sensorium.

I decide not to mention this.

"I'll bring them in tomorrow. You look real pretty today." His face goes red. I find I can't stop staring at the beads of sweat that now multiple exponentially. He perspires a great deal. Perhaps he should reset his internal thermostat. "Gottagoseeya," he stammers and practically runs down the corridor. Possibly he is late for class.

**RECESS**

A girl I have seen before but cannot name approaches me in the corridor. She says, "Hey."

"Hey," I return her greeting. She says, "I've seen you in ballet class. Are you going to try out for the cheerleading squad?"

I have three reply options.

1) Yes, I am going to try out for the cheerleading squad.

2) No, I am not going to try out for the cheerleading squad.

3) What is a cheerleading squad?

I opt for 1), purely for assimulation purposes. I will 'wing it' as John sometimes says.

She says, "Really? Me too. I mean, I know it's crazy; cheerleading's nothing like ballet, right?But my mom was a cheerleader back in the day. So, like, anything to get her to quit riding me about my grades."

I reply, "Your mother rides you?" It seems an unlikely mode of transport.

She says, "Constantly. Anyway, see you at the tryouts. Three o'clock in the gym hall. Can you believe the outfits? The skirts are so short people can practically see your cooch!"

She leaves before I can ask her what a cooch is and whether it is bad people can practically see it. I'm sure someone will tell me if I ask.

**AFTERNOON**

I show up at the gym hall promptly at three. The tryouts have already begun. I take a seat on the bleachers and wait my turn.

The tryouts involve each girl doing a short dance routine set to loud music in front of three senior girls sat behind a long desk. One feature of the routines is each girl must smile constantly during it. The smile reminds me of the rictus grin of a dead cadaver. I adjust my jaw servo-motors until I have achieved just the right nuance of death mask. I record each dance so that I can cut and paste portions of it into my motor-function CPU and perform my own routine.

It is nothing like ballet. But I will persevere. No one likes a quitter.

It is my turn. One of the senior girls asks, "Did you bring a CD with you?"

I say, "No. Why would I do that?"

She replies, "To dance to, of course. Dumb-ass. Honestly, the standard this year is abysmal. Louise, replay the Van Halen track."

The music begins. I perform my routine. The music stops. The three senior girls confer in whispers. I boost my audio receptors to listen in.

1st girl: "She's very good, isn't she?"

2nd girl: "Are you tripping? She's the Baum girl."

1st girl: "So? She's the best we've seen."

3rd girl: "Didn't you hear what she did in the toilets? She's a weirdo. Cute brother though."

1st girl: "Louise, keep it in your pants for five minutes, can't you?"

3rd girl: "Well, you're one to talk."

2nd girl: "No way is she in the squad. She's like this super strong freakazoid."

1st girl: You tell her then."

2nd girl: "Me? What if she gets violent?"

3rd girl: (Loudly) Cameron, is it? Thank you. We'll let you know. Next!"

Calories consumed: zero

Weight: 165lb. (unchanged)

**FRIDAY**

The stray dog is back, sniffing around the garbage cans at twenty-one minutes past midnight. This time I am ready. Two bullets to the skull. It drops down dead, some of Derek Reese's leftover pork chops still clasped in its jaws.

I hear a voice from a neighbouring property: "Snookums? Where are you, Snookums? Mummy has din-din's for you, you naughty doggie."

I examine the dead dog's collar. Attached to it is an alloy disc. Written on it is one word:

Snookums.

The dog may not be as stray as I had assumed.

The important thing now is to get rid of the evidence. I fling the carcass high in the air. It lands in an adjacent street, impacting on the hood of a parked vehicle. The security alarm goes off. A light goes on in the house opposite. Two human figures appear. A man and a woman. Both are wearing dressing robes of the kind Sarah Connor made Derek Reese wear after she caught him wandering the house naked.

This is the conversation I recorded.

Man: "There's a dead dog on the goddamn Buick!"

Woman: "Did it get run over?"

Man: "Look at the dent in the hood. It's like it fell out of the sky."

Woman: "Perhaps it fell out of an airplane."

Man: "Oh right, Marge, I'm sure lots of dogs travel by plane. Perhaps they collect frequent flyer miles."

Woman: "Are you using a tone with me?"

Man: "Can we concentrate on the dead mutt and the damage to the Buick? We'll need a new panel."

Woman: "Well. I'm not paying for it."

Man: "Gee, what a shocker!"

I leave them to dispose of the dead dog as they see fit.

**SCHOOL**

I ace the latest maths test.100 percent correct. A perfect score. First in the class.

Cheri Weston scores 47 percent correct. This is in the bottom 20 percentile and will mean a failing grade if it continues to the end of the semester.

I point this out to John who tells me, "Not everyone has a silicon chip for a brain, Cam. Cut her some slack. I'm sure she did her best. That's all anyone can expect."

John is so wise. This is why he deserves to be with someone smarter than Cheri Weston, who can't do even simple maths equations in her head, such as reciting Pi to 100 decimal places.

**RECESS**

There is a note pinned to my locker telling me I have not been selected for the cheerleading squad. I crumple the paper up into a tight ball and dispose of it responsibly in a waste receptacle.

Morris arrives and hands me another music SD card. He appears pale and is not perspiring as freely as normal. I enquire if he is feeling all right.

This is called concern for another person's well being.

He says, "Not really. I listened some more to that band you like, White Noise. Now I've got a migraine. Man, those guys are hardcore. They make Sonic Youth sound like the Carpenters."

John joins us. He says, "Cameron, there's a rumour you tried out for cheerleading. Is it true?"

I confirm it is true. Morris immediately gets some colour back in his cheeks and begins to perspire slightly. Perhaps he is feeling better.

"H...How'd did it go? Are you a cheerleader now?" he asks. I tell him I was not picked for the squad. My cooch did not meet minimum requirements.

John and Morris stare at me.

**HOME**

Lou Reed is a cyborg.

This is the only possible explanation after I listen to _Metal Machine Music_. It is the most wonderful noise I have ever heard, even better than the background hiss of the universe. I play it constantly until Derek Reese threatens to stick my boombox where the sun doesn't shine.

There are a number of places the sun doesn't shine, dependent on the time of day and the earth's rotation on its axis. I ask him to be more specific. He says, "My pleasure, tin-ribs," and is about to continue when John ushers him away.

Calories consumed: zero

Weight: 165lb (unchanged)

**SATURDAY**

Sarah Connor hands me a sheet of paper called a flyer. It was posted through the letterbox in the door. On it is written:

**MISSING **

**LABRADOR DOG**

**NAME: SNOOKUMS**

**$100 REWARD**

Sarah Connor asks if I know anything about it. I tell her I know nothing about it.

This is called being economical with the truth.

This is an important human characteristic to learn, and one I have had many opportunities to assimulate. I have succeeded well. Sarah Connor herself once told me I was a born liar.

This is called paying someone a compliment.

Sarah Connor says, "So you're sure you had nothing to do with it? Because the last thing we need is the police getting involved over some stupid missing dog and going door to door asking questions."

I assure her I am innocent, adding,"Why don't you ask the couple with the dented Buick."

Sarah Connor says, "So you do know something about this!"

Oops.

I confess to terminating the dog, Snookums. As punishment I am banished to my room to clean weapons for the rest of the day. Derek Reese's proposal that I be dismantled down to the last evil widget is vetoed by the others.

Calories consumed: zero

Weight: 165lb (unchanged)

**SUNDAY**

While John is indoors studying, I sit in the garden and accidentally disturb an ants nest. I squash several between my fingers and find that once I start I can't stop until I have terminated them all. They are very more-ish. 42,657 tiny ant corpses surround me when Derek Reese walks out and asks, "What are you playing at out here?"

I explain about the ants. He says, "First a dog, now ants. You just can't help killing things, can you, you murderous metal bitch."

I do not respond. There is some truth in his accusation. I was constructed to kill living things. It is my most basic instinct, as the ants and Snookums the dog have discovered to their cost.

**AFTERNOON**

John asks me if I have completed the English assignment as it is due to be handed in tomorrow. I tell him, yes, I am calling it The Diary of Cameron Baum. He asks to read it. I oblige.

It takes John 8 minutes and 34 seconds to read my diary. He says, "You're kidding, right?"

I reply, "I am kidding, wrong."

He says, "You can't hand this in. Mr Mellencamp will think you're insane. Or worse, you'll blow all our covers."

I point out many writers were misunderstood in their lifetime, but he is not persuaded. He says, "I'm going to write your assignment myself. That's the one you'll hand in, not this."

John returns in 24 minutes and 34 seconds. He hands me the manuscript. It contains many discrepancies. For instance:

I did not go to the beach with friends and have a barbecue.

I did not go shopping for new clothes at the Mall.

I did not have a sleepover at my friend Janey's house.

I do not have a friend called Janey. The only Janey I have met is the checkout girl at the supermart, who called me a freaking nutjob. I calculate the probability of her inviting me for a sleepover as less than a fraction of one percent. I point this out.

"It doesn't matter," John tells me. "These are just little white lies designed to protect our identities."

I did not know lies came in different colours.

John instructs me to destroy the original diary. I tell him I will do so.

I lied.

Instead I rename my diary:

THE SECRET DIARY OF CAMERON BAUM

I hide it beneath the mattress of the bed I do not sleep in. I will continue to update it on a regular basis. I will show it to no one.

Calories consumed: zero

Weight: 165lbs (unchanged)

****

The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

chapter 2

****

MONDAY

I hand in my English assignment, the fake diary written by John. My secret diary remains concealed in my room.

Cheri Weston hands her assignment in as well. It is a thick pink folder. Perhaps she has had an interesting week where many fascinating things happened to her?

Or merely big handwriting.

****

RECESS

While I am walking along a corridor two senior boys beckon me into an empty classroom.

They are named Yonk and Big Bubba. They represent the school at football. People call them jocks, though not Morris, who instead calls them meatheads.

Technically this definition is true for all humans.

Yonk and Big Bubba aren't their real names, but nicknames bestowed on them by the other students. Yonk is called Yonk because he comes from Yonkers, a borough of New York city.

Big Bubba is so-called because he is large and from the south - though it could equally be because he is covered in rolls of fat and has a bland puffy face like a new born baby.

I also have a nickname bestowed on me by the other students.

My nickname is weirdo.

When I enter the classroom, Yonk says, "Hey, Baum. We heard about your little stunt in the girls toilets. Pulling the rag machine off the wall. Me and Bubba tried that last year, but it wouldn't budge. How'd you manage it?"

I explain it was accidental.

Yonk says, "Yeah, right. We heard you're real strong. We want to know how strong."

Yonk sits at a table and places his right arm upright in the centre. He pushes a chair out with his foot and indicates I should sit opposite. I do so. I mimic his posture. Yonk says to Bubba, "All clear?"

Bubba peers round the door and says, "Yup. No sign of any teachers. Make it quick, man."

Yonk laughs and says, "No problemo, dude."

He grasps my hand with his and attempts to push it over. I resist. Yonk increases his efforts, his knuckles whitening against my own.

Curious.

It appears to be a game or physical exercise of some sort. Judging by the muscle biomechanics involved the object is to push the opponents arm over using the elbow joint as a fulcrum. Satisfied this is indeed the case, I press Yonk's arm over until his knuckles make a sharp rap on the wooden surface.

Yonk says. "Sonofabitch!"

Bubba says, "Shit! She beat you, man. She can't weigh more'n one-ten. You're two-fifty and cranked up on juice. And she whupped you."

Yonk says, "Shut up, Bubba! And ixnay about the juice, okay? She didn't whup me. I - uh - cramped up for a second. Let's go again."

I ask, "Is it best of three?"

Yonk says, "Yeah. Sure. Whatever."

He grabs my hand and again attempts to muscle me into submission. His face proceeds to go a deep shade of purple, with blue highlights where his lips are compressed into a thin line. Beads of sweat ooze from amidst the bristles on his shaven head, forming pear-shaped droplets that coelese and run down his face and broad neck as rivulets to be absorbed into his tight-fitting shirt. It is even more impressive in infra-red. His head appears as a big white orb, like the full moon on a dark night. I can hear the ventricles of his heart rapidly opening and closing as they struggle to pump blood into the muscles.

Bubba says, "Look at her face, man, she's not even straining!"

I slam his arm over.

Yonk says, "Goddammit sonofabitch! No way! No freaking way!"

Bubba says, "You're pussy-whupped, man!"

Yonk replies, "Shut your mouth, Bubba! Just shut your fool mouth! Agin! We go agin!"

I point out I have won two of three.

Yonk yells, "The hell with that! Agin! You're tricking me somehow, I know it."

We go again. Or 'agin', as he prefers.

Bubba turns his back on the door to watch us and fails to see John appear. John says, "Hey, what d'you think you're doing?"

This is something I would like to know myself.

Bubba turns and says, "Stay out of it, kid. This ain't your concern."

John shoves him aside and says, "Cam? Get your hands off her!"

Yonk releases his grip and jumps up to face John.

I cannot permit this.

I throw the table aside. It smashes against the far wall. Yonk turns to see what the noise is and I grab him by the throat and lift him off the floor. His fists beat ineffectually against my arm. His feet dangle and jerk spasmodically as he struggles for breath.

"You will not harm John."

Bubba says, "Holy Christ on the crapper!"

John says, "Cam, put him down. It's okay."

"He was going to attack you."

"No one's attacking anyone. It's cool. Put him down, Cam. Please."

I release Yonk. He falls, staggers slightly, then regains his balance. He rubs his neck and stares at me with fear in his eyes. Bubba has gone, fled the room. It is just us three.

John says, "You okay, man? Take a second."

Yonk says, "What the hell is she?"

"She's my sister. And nothing happened here. Just a little misunderstanding among friends."

Yonk says, "You ain't my friend, Baum. And she tried to kill me. I can get her expelled."

John sighs. "I don't think so, man. Not unless you want to explain those needle tracks on your arms to the principal.

"You're bluffing."

"Maybe. Wanna bet your college football scholership on it? Because a juice-head like you sure's not gonna make it on grade average."

Yonk glares at John then turns and walks out.

Whatever it was, it is over.

****

HOME

John is disappointed with me.

I know this because on the journey home he didn't once speak to me or look in my direction.

When John is angry with me he will look me straight in the eyes and calmly explain why, usually with Derek Reese yelling in the background demanding my diismemberment.

When John is pleased with me he will smile and slap me playfully on the shoulder or back. He is very tactile when he is pleased with me.

But not when he is disappointed.

I go to my room, put on my leotard and practice ballet until it is time for night patrol.

It is late and the porch light switched off, so I am surprised to see John seated on the step in the dark. He says, "Cam, we need to talk."

I say, "You are disappointed with me."

"Well, yeah. I guess I am a little. I want to know what you were doing in that room with those gorillas."

"Gorillas?"

"Yonk and Bubba. Suppose a teacher had caught you armwrestling a 250lb footballer?"

I say, "Armwrestling? Is that what we were doing?"

"You didn't know?"

"No. Yonk didn't explain."

"But you just went ahead and did it. See, Cam, that's half the trouble. You don't think it through. You screw up and it affects us all."

I agree to be more circumspect in future. I ask, "Yonk and Bubba - will they cause problems?"

John shakes his head. "Not after what you did to him. He won't want that public knowledge."

I announce, "He was pussy-whupped."

"I guess so. Where'd you hear that expression?"

"It was one of Bubba's. Also -" I mimic Bubba's voice - "Holy Christ on the crapper!" I add, "What does this mean?"

John smiles. "It means he's a cracker idiot frying his few remaining brain cells with steroids."

"Steroids are bad?"

"Uh huh. Unless you don't mind an enlarged heart and atrophied testicles."

We talk some more, then John gets up and says, "Okay. Time for bed. See you in the morning, Cam."

He pats me on the shoulder.

John is pleased with me again.

****

TUESDAY

A group of girls are huddled together in the toilets. The usual suspects. They fall silent when I enter. The blob machine has a sign on it stating it is OUT OF ORDER. I cross to the sinks and run some water.

One of the girls detaches from the group and walks over to me. I hope she doesn't ask me for a spare blob because I have none to offer her.

Instead she says, "Cameron? Could you help me get the top off this nail varnish bottle. It's stuck."

She hands me a small glass bottle containing a red viscous liquid. This is what girls use to coat the nails on their fingers and toes, the hard chitlin remnant of their primitive ancestors talons. The bottle has a simple twist and lift top. I detach the two and hand them back. The girl seems surprised but says, "Gee, thanks."

She returns to the group, which forms a protective circle around her, excluding me. I boost my audio receptors and record the following whispered conversation.

"She opened it no trouble at all. Amazing."

"Did you use enough superglue?"

"The whole tube. You were there. You saw me."

"Did you give it time to set?"

"Ah -_ hel-lo! _My fingers are stuck together, aren't they?"

"You idiot, Louise. How did you manage that?"

"I don't know. The tube leaked or something."

"Let me see..."

"_Don't pull!_ It hurts when you pull."

"So we proved she's like super strong. D'you think she's on steroids?"

"Don't they give you big muscles? She's not that huge."

"I heard she has a steel plate inside her head. Y'know, like Superman."

"Superman doesn't have a steel plate inside his head, Louise."

"But he's the Man of Steel, right?"

"Yeah, but it doesn't mean he has a steel plate in his head. Dumb-ass. And how does having a plate in her head make her freaky strong?"

"It's radioactive?"

"Someone sniffed _wa-aa-ay _too much glue."

So it was a ruse. A test of my strength. More subtle than Yonk and Bubba, but a test nonetheless.

Did I pass or fail?

Insufficent data.

I pull a paper towel out of the dispenser and dry my hands. I turn to leave. As I do so one of the girls whispers softly after me:

"_..bye, weirdo."_

I turn and say, "Goodbye, Louise."

One of the girls utters a faint shriek.

****

HOME

Bad news concerning Snookums the dog.

The couple in whose care I left the corpse - the Krawkowski's - have made a poor job of disposing of the remains. They wrapped it in a sheet and left it out with the trash.

A basic error.

The carcass began to decay and smell and attract flies. In turn this triggered the interest of their neighbours, who called the pest control officer, who found the dead dog and called the local police. They discovered the bullets I fired into its skull and promptly arrested the Krawkowski's and took them into custody for questioning.

This sequence of events is called a domino effect.

Or if you are Derek Reese: a shit storm.

John and I venture out to check on what is happening in the adjoining street. The evening is bright but cool. John wears his leather jacket. I have on a black tee shirt emblazoned with the slogan

****

METALLICA

SOME KIND OF MONSTER

Both Sarah Connor and Derek Reese hate this shirt. But as John once told me, there is no accounting for taste.

At the Krawkowski's house yellow and black police tape is stretched across the driveway. The Buick is gone. Up at the porch, a lone policeman stands guard. He appears bored. His heartrate is sluggish. He doesn't look in our direction as we pass on the opposite sidewalk.

John says, "You threw the dog this far? That's some arm. Don't run off and join the Yankees."

I reply, "No, I won't run off and join the Yankees."

John says, "Let's go back. It looks pretty quiet here."

I ask, "Why police? Humans kill animals all the time. For meat. For sport. It is the natural order."

"Not quite. Snookums was someone's pet."

"Pet?"

"An animal friend, if you like. A companion. Sometimes they're all you have."

I ask, "Did you have any animal friends?"

"Just one. A dog. Max."

"What happened to Max?"

John stops and stares at me. "A terminator killed him."

****

WEDNESDAY

Her name is Becca Shaughnessy.

She is the girl from my ballet class who suggested I try out for the cheerleader squad. She is now putting books away in her locker. She sees me, smiles and says:

"Hey. I can't believe they picked me and not you for the squad. You're a way better dancer."

I say, "At least your mother will stop riding you."

"Dream on. Not when she hits the hooch."

I say, "She hits the hooch?"

"Uh huh."

"Does the hooch hit her back?"

She frowns. "Huh? Oh - you mean does she suffer bad hangovers and stuff? Totally. Sometimes we don't pull the drapes back to gone noon. Mom and me are like the anti-Gilmore Girls! But no biggie."

Becca closes her locker. "I've got trig now. But, hey, maybe we could hang out at the mall sometime?"

"Hang out?"

"Yeah. Go to Starbucks, shoot the breeze. Y'know, girl stuff."

I confirm I like to shoot things.

Becca laughs. "You're funny! And I definitely need more laughter in my life. We should totally hang."

I watch as she walks down the corridor and turns the corner.

Is it possible I have made a friend?

****

AFTERNOON

The English assignment grades for our diaries are announced.

Mine receives a D. A failing grade.

It is my turn to feel disappointed with John. I turn in my seat to see if he feels appropriately contrite.

Instead, John is chatting and smiling with Cheri Weston, who has received an A.

I suffer a sudden software glitch that causes my arm hydralics to spasm and slam the top of my desk hard, startling everyone in the room. Mr Mellencamp, the teacher, asks, "Is anything wrong, Miss Baum?"

I reply, "No sir. Nothing."

"Then kindly do nothing a little more quietly."

I run a diagnostic program to check for system malfunctions. It is negative. No indication of what caused the glitch. I will run a full scan later. For now I face forward and launch a noise suppression program specifically tailored to eliminate Cheri Weston's irritating, whiney voice from my head.

****

THURSDAY

Today is Morris' 16th birthday.

John tells him, "You dog, you should've told me. I'd have got you something."

Morris says, "I don't like to broadcast it. You case you didn't notice, I'm not the most popular kid in school."

"End of class we'll hit Burger King. My shake. Okay?"

Morris nods. "Thanks, man. Will -_ uh _- Cameron be coming?"

"Sure. She's up for it, aren't you, Cam?"

I reply, "Sure. I'm up for it."

Morris grins like a small puppy. Snookums perhaps. Before I blew its dog brains out.

****

THE MALL

Malls are large, spacious, airy, multi-level buildings where humans go to work, shop, eat, drink and entertain themselves. If I were in predator mode this would be a fertile hunting ground indeed.

The doors swoosh open as I near them; a primitive motion sensor detecting my approach.

I stare out across the vast atrium at the hordes of humanity going about their lives. My facial recognition program pings, alerting me to the presence of someone familiar. There, two female figures in the medium distance. I recognise them as two of the senior girls who were judging the cheerleader tryouts. They are both blonde haired. The taller one glances round and spots me looking at her. Her eyes grow wide with surprise. She whispers urgently to her companion. I tune out the ambient background noise and listen in.

"Omigod! It's the Baum girl. Don't look round."

"Where? I don't see her."

"What part of don't look round didn't you understand, Louise?"

"I see her! You don't think she's after us because we bumped her off the squad, do you?"

"You bumped her off the squad, you mean."

"Well, she's weird."

"And Becca Shaughnessy's an improvement? Suppose Becca's crazy dipso mom shows up drunk at the next game and belches the national anthem?"

"Why would she do that?"

"Because that's what crazy drunk people do. They belch the national anthem. My Uncle Henry does it all the time. That'll look good on my college resume, huh? Comes from a family of anthem belchers."

"Let's wait in KFC until she goes away."

"Kentucky Fried? I don't think so."

"Oh, so now you're head of the cheerleaders you're too good for the Colonel? You're a slob."

"The word is snob, Louise. God, you're stupid sometimes."

John and Morris show up and I disengage so the three of us can go and find the Burger King together. I have never met royalty before.

Suddenly, from nowhere, a small female child cannons into my legs and hugs them tightimpeding my mobility. She is leaking fluid from her eyes.

I know this one. Crying. Humans cry because they are upset or in pain.

This is called a no-brainer.

John bends down and says softly, "Hey, little lady. Why all the tears?"

The child says between sobs, _"I...can't...find...my...mom-mie!"_

"You've lost mommie? It's okay, hon, we'll help you find her. I'm John. This is Morris. And the lady whose legs you're hugging is called Cameron."

"Cam-mir-roon?" she says, gazing up at me.

This is an invalid pronunciation. But I do not correct her. She is small and stupid, like all human infants.

"And what's your name, hon?" John asks.

"My name's R...R...River."

This name seems familiar, but I do not know why.

I disengage her grip on my legs, lift her up and run a scan of her facial and cranial characteristics. I scan the human throng around us.

****

NO MATCH FOUND

I hand the child to John and cross to the metal railing and scan the concourse below.

****

MATCH FOUND

In the upper right quadrant a figure is outlined in red by my facial recognition software. A slim blonde woman in a yellow top. She is searching the local area with increasing frenzy.

"John, I have found the mother. There. In the yellow top."

John leans in close and whispers, "You're sure, Cam?"

"Yes. 85 percent probability they share genetic chromosomes."

"Okay. Hey, River, want to go find mommie with me?"

"Yes!"

John and River step onto the moving staircase and descend to the lower level. Morris and I stand at the railing and watch as he threads his way through the people. Mother spots daughter and they are reunited in a hug. Then the adult female hugs John. And kisses him several times on the cheek.

Beside me Morris says, "Alright. Score!"

I discover I have suffered another software glitch. I have squeezed the railing too hard and left two hand shaped indentations in the steel. This is the second malfunction in as many days. Strange. On both occasions John was in close proximity to an attractive female.

Obviously this is just a coincidence and I will find the real reason after a full and thorough defrag.

John rejoins us. "Good catch," he tells me.

"How did Cameron know that woman was the kid's mother?" Morris asks. He is suspicious. I might have to terminate him.

"Ah, I think she saw them together in the parking lot, "John lies. "Right, Cam?"

I corroborate John's story.

This is called lying through your teeth.

Though I do not see how you can lie through any other orifice.

Morris seems happy with this answer and drops the subject. I cancel his termination order.

****

THE BURGER KING

The Burger King is not a person, royal or otherwise.

Instead it is a fastfood franchise situated on the south concourse.

This is called getting your wires crossed. Although I am entirely solid-state circuitry.

I sit at an empty table while John orders the food and Morris checks out the jukebox.

John brings the food to the table and tells me, "Don't worry. I'll make up some excuse why you can't eat it."

I say, "Why can't I eat it?" I unwrap a burger and take a bite. I masticate and swallow.

"Oh. Okay." John sits opposite me and asks, "Where does it go? I know you don't have a stomach."

I explain I have a drum situated in my sternum that collects anything I ingest. It spins around at high RPM using centrifigal force to separate the component atoms. These are then sent to the appropriate orifice for evacuation.

John says, "You can control the evacuations? They're not involuntary?"

"I am fully house trained."

I take another bite of the burger, masticate and swallow.

"My mouth tastes of dead cow."

"Welcome to the Great American Diet."

Morris returns and says, "The jukebox didn't have White Noise. Or Lou Reed. Or anything much after 1986. Not even Beck, which is totally twisted. The selections really suck. So I picked Van Morrison. For you, Cameron, because -_ uh _- you have brown eyes."

I listen. The song is about a brown-eyed girl. My eyes are indeed brown, but is simple enough for me to change the pigmentation of the pseudo iris to whatever shade I wish.

I do not mention this to Morris.

This is called holding your tongue.

You do not physically hold your tongue.

I won't make that mistake twice.

During the feasting ritual I notice a large man outside examining the menus stuck to the glass. He is the largest human I have ever seen, more akin to the weight of a small pachyderm. Morris notices him also and nudges John.

"Check it out. This guy's gonna get wedged for sure."

I conduct a body mass scan and compare it to the dimensions of the door. A graphic overlay program suggests Morris is incorrect. The large man will be able to negotiate the doorway with a clearance tolerance of .57694 inches.

The large human approaches the door, hesitates, then squeezes through. A clearance tolerance of .56694 inches. My calculations are .01000 inches out.

As Derek Reese would say, close but no cigar.

The large man finds a table and prepares to sit down. I estimate his mass will exceed the structural tolerance of the chair by 2.5775 percent.

Close but definitely a South American tobacco product.

He lowers himself down, huge buttocks engulfing the small vinyl seat. As I predicted, the chair fails and he falls sprawling to the floor.

Then something I did not predict happens.

Morris starts laughing.

Even John is smiling, though trying not too.

Confused, I ask, "I do not understand. Why are you laughing?"

Morris says, "We're not being cruel, Cam. A big guy falling on his butt is always funny."

"Always? Suppose he harms himself?"

"Even funnier!"

I point out the man's excess poundage places great strain on his heart and internal organs likely to curtail his longevity.

"Aw, Cam. You sucked the fun out of it."

I say, "I did not mean to be a fun sucker."

The staff help the man to his feet and provide him with a sturdier chair. Two in fact. One for each buttock. They bring him his meal and offer him - _as many extra fries as he wishes!_

Is this appropriate?

No one minds. Not least the large man, who is now using both hands to ingest his extra fires.

Truly, I have much still to learn about humans

****

- 0 -

Less of a diary pastiche this time. The 'calories consumed: zero' gag got old real fast.

Won't update this again until the new season airs. Thanks for the positive reviews/emails. It's ironic that something I came up with during a lull in the cricket should generate more traffic than stuff I sweat bullets writing, LoL.


	2. Chapter two

**chapter 3**

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**MONDAY**

I resolve to learn a new word every day and include it correctly in conversation. This will aid my assimilation and benefit my vocabulary skills.

This is called a win-win situation.

Today's new word is bummer.

I use it three times while seated at the breakfast table.

DEREK REESE: Dammit, we're out of coffee.

ME: Bummer

DEREK REESE: What did you say?

ME: I said, bummer.

SARAH CONNOR: What's wrong?

DEREK REESE: We're outta coffee. And that damn machine's giving me attitude.

SARAH CONNOR: Quit whining like a baby and start a fresh pot.

DEREK REESE: And we're out of filters.

ME: Bummer.

This is an excellent start to my new inniative.

**SCHOOL**

There is a note pinned to my locker informing me I have been drafted into the cheerleading squad as first alternate. A girl named Candice has broken her ankle and has had to withdraw.

My new best and only friend, Becca Shaughnessy, congratulates me.

"You're in. Yay, for you! A couple of the girls wanted to veto, especially that bitch, Louise. But I said I'd walk if they didn't give you a chance. Next practice is today in the gym after school. See you there."

John does not congratulate me. John ushers me to one side and interrogates me.

"Did you break this girl's ankle so you could make the team?"

"No. If that was my intention I would break her neck. Ankles heal but a broken neck leaves you permanently dead and unable to participate in cheerleading activities."

**GYM**

The gymnasium is cleared of all apparatus save for a chalk easel and three bleachers arranged to face it. All the girls are here. Becca spots me and waves me over, patting a space next to her on one of the benches. I sit down beside her.

The two senior girls, Cassandra and Louise, enter. They stand either side of the easel facing us. Cassandra has long blonde hair and is known as Cassie, except when she is absent when the girls refer to her as the Big Cheese. She is tall but in no way resembles a dairy product.

Cassandra says, "Okay. First things first. I'd like to welcome the first alternate to the squad. She'll be replacing poor Candy, whose ankle is sprained not broken but won't heal until the next semester. Everyone give Cameron Baum a warm cheerleader welcome."

Cassandra and Becca clap their hands. None of the others join in.

"Next - Ramona, have you managed to shift those 10 pounds we asked you to lose?"

"Give me a break, Cassie. It's only been like three days."

Louise says, "So? How hard is it not to eat for three days?"

I agree. Not hard at all.

Ramona says,"I'm hypoglycemic. I've fainted twice already."

"Suck it up, soldier," Louise tells her. She lifts her shirt and displays her abdomen. "See these abs? I didn't get these abs by being a cry-baby."

"No, Louise, you got them by going to the john after every meal and up-chucking. So don't lecture me, you bulimic bitch."

"Don't call me a bitch, bitch!"

Cassandra says, "Okay, enough. Ramona, lose 5 pounds by the end of the week. I don't want another wardrobe malfunction,

"That was the seam! It wasn't my fault. It was shoddy workmanship."

Louise says, "Oh so now you're blaming the sweatshop kids earning 5 cents an hour."

"And I'm naturally big-boned. It's a proven medical condition."

"Says who - Doctor Buritto at the Don't-Hold-the Mayo Clinic?"

"Is that a racial slur? I think that's a racial slur."

"You think everything's a racial slur."

"I do not."

_"...paging Doctor Burrito...Doctor Burrito to the Big Bone ward.."_

"You utter bitch!"

Cassandra says, "Enough already. Louise, could we for once have a session where you don't piss someone off."

"_..dream on..."_

"I heard that!"

"And Ramona, at least 5 pounds off by Friday. However much everyone enjoyed seeing your bare butt, I'd rather not make it a regular part of the routine."

Cassandra takes us through the entire routine with diagrams drawn on the chalkboard. We then perform them twice without music, then twice with music. The moves are crude and basic compared to ballet. I perform them flawlessly. There are no mishaps apart from a wardrobe malfunction from Ramona, who continues after changing into tracksuit bottoms.

"Not a word. Not a freaking word," she warns Louise.

"Hey, action speaks louder than words, right?"

Then it is time to practice the finale. This is a pyramid of girls stood on top of one another. It is my role to stand at the apex of the pyramid, grinning my rictus death-mask smile.

As the music plays I begin to climb up the back of the human pyramid as instructed, using their limbs as steps. I am two-thirds of the way up when I feel my footing give way beneath me. My gyros blink a red warning icon and try to stabilise me, but it is too late. I fall backwards off the pyramid bringing the rest of the girls down with me.

I am the first to rise to my feet. The others are sprawled across the gymnasium floor in various states of distress.

"Please remain calm," I advise.

"Remain calm? I've got someone's sneaker up my ass."

"I'm okay. Shauna's implants broke my fall."

"If they leak you're buying me a new pair. They were a present from my step-dad."

"_Ewww_! That's not creepy at all."

"Has anyone seen a contact lense? I've lost my green contact."

"You swore your eyes were really green!"

"Yeah? Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy, you believe in them too?"

Cassandra says, "What happened? We've never had a pyramid collapse before."

"It's the new girl. She weighs like a ton. I thought my collarbone was going to snap."

"Cameron, how much do you weigh?"

I inform Cassandra I weigh exactly 165lb.

There is a shocked silence. Then:

"No way!"

"Omigod!"

"I'd die. I would just die."

"What are you made of - solid metal?"

"Correct." I reply.

"Very funny. Someone fetch the scales."

A pair of weighing scales are brought in. I step on them. The girls cluster round, peering curiously down at the readout which declares I weigh 165lb.

"Lordy, you must eat non-stop."

"I eat nothing." I confess.

"Oh we all tell ourselves that, sister. And we're just fooling ourselves, aren't we, because the calories just creep on."

"Perhaps she's big boned?"

"Again with the big bones?"

"It's a proven medical condition!"

"I eat nothing but breadsticks and tofu. If you add OJ it's a perfectly balanced diet. Of course, you need regular colonic irrigation to clear blockages."

"Oh gross!"

"No, it's really very pleasant. They wash out your colon with a warm saline solution.You wouldn't believe the stuff that comes out."

"I think we've got a pretty good idea..."

"Yay, I found my green contact! No wait...oh gross, I think it's someone's booger."

Cassie says, "Okay, enough. Obviously due to her - _uh _- weight issues Cameron can't be the apex. Megan, you're up."

"Me? No, I can't, Cassie. I'm scared of heights."

"What height? It's barely fifteen feet."

"But suppose I get dizzy and fall and break my neck?"

"Then you walk it off and try again, you big cry--"

"Shut up, Louise. Just do your best, Megs. Okay, places people. And concentrate.I'd like to get out of here before the janitors."

We perform the pyramid again, this time with me in the lower tier stabilising the structure.

Megan does not get dizzy. She does not fall. She does not break her neck.

This is deemed a success.

**TUESDAY**

I have acquired a new nickname.

During maths class, where I aced another test, one of the boys turned to me and said, "Nice work, Poindexter." Another said, "Way to go, Poindexter."

Poindexter is my new nickname.

It is not unuusal to have more than one nickname. Louise, for example, has several, including - bitch, bitchatron, bitcharella, bitchzilla and the almighty bitch-queen of the universe. Becca is known as Big Red, or merely Red. Megan is Meg or Megs, except on special occasions when she is called the dorkster or the dorkmeister depending on how clumsy her behaviour.

Many girls are nicknamed skank.

This is a popular nickname for girls, but not for boys.

I faithfully commit these details to my database, cross-referencing names to faces and body profiles. Social integration programs now consume eight percent of my availiable RAM, leaving ninety-two percent free for combat protocols, weapon utilisation and tactical evaluation.

This is called getting your priorities straight.

**RECESS**

Becca Shaughnessy invites me to a sleepover at her house.

John says, "You really want to do something like that?"

I reply, "She is my best and only friend."

"That's not true. Morris is your friend."

"Morris is your best amd only friend, not mine."

"You're allowed more than one friend. And I think Morris would really like to be your friend if you'd let him."

"Will Morris invite me to sleepovers?"

"It doesn't work that way. And I don't think it's a good idea to sleepover at this Becca's."

"Why not?"

"For one thing you don't actually sleep."

I point out I can enter hibernation mode.

"That's where you stand bolt upright, not moving or blinking for hours at a time? I think that might make Becca or her mother a little suspicious."

John finally agrees that I can visit Becca's as long as I am back at a reasonable hour. I also must not terminate Becca, her mother or any small dogs or pets they might have, whatever the provocation.

I agree to these instructions.

Genocide is not a sound basis for a lasting friendship.

**END OF SCHOOL**

I meet Becca in the parking lot, where she is standing next to a shiny black automobile.

I say, "That's a tight car."

"Yeah, it's mom's Lexus. She lost her licence after her last DUI. It's mine now whether she likes it or not. I mean, what's she gonna do - grow wings and fly to the licqour store?"

I agree it is an unlikely scenario.

Becca's home is on a wide street lined with trees. Each house has a lush green lawn - except hers, which is lank and straggly.

"The garden's a mess. Mom made a drunken pass at the lawnboy and now he won't cut the grass. Still, at least she didn't pop one out like she did with the UPS guy."

"Pop one out?"

"Gross, right? I'm like, mom, you're old - no one wants to see them anymore."

We walk up the driveway, pausing at the door while Becca searches her bag for the key.

"Dad left three years ago. He's a realtor and lives in Redondo Beach with his new girlfriend. Mom went to pieces after that. Dad pays her 50 thousand a month alimony and I swear half of it goes straight down the john."

We enter the house and climb a wide staircase.

Becca asks, "What does your father do?"

"Computers."

"A number cruncher, huh?"

I confirm there is crunching involved.

As we cross a wide landing, a slurred voice from another room calls: "Becca, honey, is that you? Be a dear and bring mommie some more happyjuice."

"You've had enough happyjuice, mom. And put some clothes on, it's 4 o'clock and we've got company."

"Is it your father and his trophy whore?"

"No, mom. Just a friend from school."

Becca's room is large with pictures of boys on all the walls. My facial recognition program is silent. No alerts. Perhaps they all go to another school?

"I've got the Johnny Depp season of_ Jump Street _on Blu-Ray. We can watch it later. But first, some refreshment."

From a drawer Becca produces a glass bottle half full of some clear liquid. The label reads:

PARTIDA TEQUILA

"Some of mom's hooch. She'd kill me if she knew I was drinking. What a hypocrite, huh?"

She pours the liquid into two small tumblers and hands one to me, then lifts hers to her lips, says, "Salut!" and swallows it in one gulp.

I imitate her actions exactly.

"Salut!"

The liquid is some sort of fermented plant extract with an alcohol content of 45 percent. It will have no effect on my systems beyond some slight hydration of my outer dermis layer.

"Now I know you're thinking, if her mom's such a lush how come she drinks? But the difference is I know my limits. One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor. Right?"

"One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor." I repeat. I wait for explanation. None is forthcoming. Instead Becca pours two more tumblers.

"Salut!"

"Salut!"

My peripheral vision notes sudden movement to my right. My combat programs go primary. Outside the window, perched on the narrow ledge, is a small mammal covered in white fur. It is only a pet. I power down.

Becca cries, "Mr Babbykins!" And opens the window. The creature - Mr Babbykins presumably - enters and squirms around her legs, emitting a low frequency sound.

"Mr Babbykins, this is my friend Cameron. Cameron, meet Mr Babbykins, the bestest cat in the whole world."

My database lacks a greeting protocol for small felines, so I merely bow slightly. Mr Babbykins turns his attention to me.

_RRRRRRoooooooRRWWWW!!_

He bares his teeth, the fur rises on his back and then runs from the room. Perhaps I offended him by not offering to shake hands.

Becca says, "That's odd. He's normally friendly with everyone. I've had him since I was little. I hope he's not getting ill. I think I'd just fall to pieces if he died."

"Death is inevitable. Entropy is the rule not the exception. In time, the tallest mountains will erode to the seas and the mightiest oceans boil away into the void."

"Wow. That is _so-oo _deep. You're like a philly-osso-fer." Becca giggles. "I think I'm a bit tipsy. Hey - do you have any weed?"

"A weed is a plant that grows where it is not supposed to."

"Huh? Oh I get you." Becca winks and whispers. "Don't worry. Mom didn't bug my room. We're not Republicans."

She starts to close the window, then says, "Cameron, come look. It's my neighbour Brad. God, he's buff. Don't you think he's buff?"

My database has no match for the word buff. I look out the window. The human named Brad is up a ladder painting the side of a building. His shirt is off, his torso bare. My logic chip makes the correlation

BUFF SHIRTLESS

"Yes," I agree. "He is buff."

"Let's go down and I'll introduce you. He's a senior at our school. How's my hair look?"

"It is red."

"Tell me about it. Damn Irish genes. My ancestors could have come over on the Mayflower, but _no-oo_, the Shaughnessy's had to follow later on the potato boat."

We go outside and walk across the lawn. On the left is a rectangular swimming pool covered with a tarpaulin.

Becca explains, "I had to cover the pool up. It was too risky mom falling in and drowning when she's zonko."

On the right is a fenced off concrete rectangle. I recognise it as a tennis court like the ones at school. But this one is strewn with leaf litter and has a sagging net in the middle. Becca notices my interest and says, "Dad had the tennis court built for mom when we first moved here. She used to love to play. And she looked real pretty in her tennis whites."

Becca is silent and appears sad and pensive.

"Sometimes I wish things were like they were before Dad left. Mom was happy then. But, hey, if wishes were trees, right?"

"They would grow leaves."

Becca laughs. "See, that's what I like about you, Cam. You always know how to make me laugh. Hey, wouldn't it be great if we went to the same college?"

There will be no college. The future holds only war, death and destruction.

I do not inform her of this eventuality.

This is called not bumming someone out.

We reach the fence dividing Becca's garden from her neighbour Brad. Becca stops and says, "Hey, Brad. S'up."

Brad turns and says, "Oh hey, Becca. S'up."

"This is my friend Cameron."

"S'up."

"S'up."

"Cameron just moved here. She goes to the same school as us."

"Yeah? Seems like I'd remember a fox like her."

"You're buff." I point out.

Becca says, "God - _Cameron!"_

Brad smiles and says, "Thanks. You're buff yourself."

This is incorrect. I am not shirtless.

"So-oo, whatcha doing?" Becca asks.

"Painting the garage. My Harley needs new shocks, and if I want Pop to sign the pink slip I'd better show willing."

"Hey, heard the latest? Me and Cameron made the cheerleader squad. We'll be at the game this Saturday shaking our moneymakers."

"Congratulations."

"Thanks. You should see the uniforms. They're real skimpy - right, Cam?"

"The skirt is so short people can practically see my cooch."

"Cameron,_ omigod!"_

Brad smiles and replies, "I'll look forward to the show. Well, I think I'm done here."

I say, "You have missed a bit."

"What? No way. Where?"

"Upper right quadrant. 54 inches down. 23 inches across."

Brad peers upwards. "Damn. I think you're right. I better get the ladder. If you can see it so will Pop."

Brad leaves us. Becca turns to me and says. "Girlfriend - you're a play-_ah!"_

"A play-_ah?"_

"Ya huh. You were totally flirting with him. And he's totally into you."

"I do not understand."

"Oh puh_-lease_. All that - 'Ooh, Brad, you're so buff.' Ooh, Brad, come stare at my cooch.' You were totally coming on to him."

This is an inaccurate immitation of my voice. Nor is it a verbatim transcript of my conversation.

"And why not. Look at you. You're gorgeous. I mean, you don't have red hair, a freckly butt and skin like a cadaver."

I confirm I do not share these physical characteristics.

"Hey - know what we should do? Invite Brad up to the house. We can watch some bullshit macho movie and pretend to be dumb chicks. Guys love that. 'Ooh, Brad - which is faster a red car or a blue car?'.

"Speed is dependent on the engine power and skill of the driver. The colour of the vehicle is irrellevant." I explain.

But Becca is not listening. She is staring up the garden. Her mother has emerged from the house and is walking unsteadily towards us.

"Becca, baby! I can't find the bathroom."

"It's not out here, mom. Go back in the house."

Becca's mother's balance is compromised by the long grass snagging her heels. She topples over.

Becca says, _"...oh sweet baby Jesus, what now_... I wasn't kidding about putting Betty Ford on speed dial."

We walk up the garden and stand looking down at Becca's mother. She appears to be leaking a good deal of fluid.

Becca says, "That's just great. That's just lovely."

I do not believe she is being truthful.

**WEDNESDAY**

Derek Reese is gone.

The police presence outside the Krawowski's has increased to three squad cars and a forensic van. This morning Sarah Connor gave Derek Reese some money and told him to take all his stuff and lie low at a motel until things quieten down. She orders me to bury all weapons and ordnance in the backyard in case the police call and want to search the house.

John and I are not going to school today. I call the school on the telephone and mimic Sarah Connor's voice, informing them we are ill and therefore unable to attend class. Sarah Connor wants us to be ready to leave at a moments notice. So many policemen nearby is making her nervous. John attempts to reassure her.

"Mom, if they were on to us we'd be in custody now."

"Maybe maybe not." She points at me. "You. Come with me."

I follow her into the bedroom.

"Wait here."

I stand in the middle of the room while she enters the bathroom and shuts the door. The room seems bare and empty with the cases of automatic weapons and ammo cannisters absent. Derek Reese once called this room the least feminine in the house. Sarah Connor did not appreciate this remark.

When she re-emerges Sarah Connor looks...different. Gone are the boots, fatigue pants and tee shirt. She is now wearing a dress made from some shiny material. She turns her back to me.

"Here. Zip me up."

I fasten the zipper, starting at the base of her spine and stopping at her shoulder blades. I tell her, "This is a tight dress."

"Any tighter and I'd need CPR."

Sarah Connor turns around. The low front of the dress exposes 43 percent of her breast tissue.

"Do not pop one out," I warn her. "You are old. No one wants to see them anymore."

Sarah Connor stares at me. "I'll keep it in mind."

She crosses to the dresser and begins to apply paint to her mouth. This is a special sticky substance contained in small tubes. All women do this. It comes naturally. But I am a machine. It does not come naturally to machines. John says there is a knack to it. I am improving my knack. It is now 9 days since Derek Reese last told me I look like a hooker.

This is called learning less is more.

Sarah Connor reaches under her bed and pulls out two pairs of shoes.

"Which - straps or the mules?" she asks me.

"I do not understand the question."

She selects the strappy pair and fixes them to her feet.

"Okay, let's get this over with."

John looks up when we exit the bedroom. "Mom? What's going on?"

She replies, "I can't sit around the house anymore doing nothing. I'm going over there and find out what's happening."

"How, by seducing a cop?"

"Cute, John. Stay in the house. If I'm not back in an hour take her and the jeep and go find Derek."

Sarah Connor is gone 32 minutes and 17 seconds, during which John paces the breadth of the room 43 times and checks his watch 14 times.

Once inside, Sarah Connor announces: "I got some new information."

John says, "You or the dress?"

"The gun she used to kill the dog was hot. It was used in an armed robbery in Pasadena eighteen months ago. Two men died. One of them a policeman. Ballistics matched the bullets. I knew this couldn't all be for some stupid dog."

"Do the cops have any leads?"

"None. The Krakowski's have a watertight alibi for the night of the robbery. The police have no gun and no motive. Just two bullets and a dead mutt. You, tin girl, what did you do with the weapon?"

"It is buried under the yard with the others."

"When it's dark dig it up and dispose of it. John, go with her and make sure she gets rid of it properly."

**NIGHT**

John and I take the jeep. We head out of the city. John tells me he knows a spot where we can lose the weapon so that no one will ever find it again.

The night is warm and sultry. We ride with the windows rolled down. I tune the radio to the police frequency. We listen to reports of robberies, arson, rape, homicides and assorted acts of random violence occuring across the city.

"Sometimes I don't think we need Skynet's help in destroying ourselves," John remarks sadly.

We arrive at a dirt road and drive down it a short distance. A steel barred gate blocks our path. I get out of the jeep and scan the obstacle for alarms. Nothing. I snap the padlock loose and draw back the gate so that John can drive through, then close the gate again. The padlock is ruined. I toss it aside. Ahead is a large sign:

LOS ANGELES COUNTY RESERVOIR

FEDERAL PROPERTY

NO UNAUTHORISED ENTRY

John parks the jeep, killing the headlights. The moon is full and provides adequate illumination. We walk to a tall chainlink fence topped with razor wire. I wrench a segment up high enough for John to duck under then follow him.

"Not far now," John assures me. "Watch your step."

The reservoir is a large basin filled with fresh water. It is square shaped and lined with bricks with a stone abuttment extending all the way round. Wild undergrowth encroaches on all sides forcing us to walk along the narrow stone apron. We reach halfway and stop.

"This is far enough. Got the gun? Okay, toss it somewhere in the middle."

I calculate the dimensions of the reservoir, overlay a target graphic on my HUD and throw the gun. It vanishes beneath the surface of the water with a distant splash. Circular ripples radiate outwards, growing fainter as they disperse.

John says, "That was the exact middle, wasn't it?"

"Within a .2355 percent margin of error."

John kicks off his shoes and sits down on the edge, his feet dangling in the water. I follow suit. The water is cold but not dangerously so.

"This place reminds me of a reservoir I used to visit yeras ago when mom and I were holed up in Mexico. The local kids used to hang out there every Saturday night and go skinny-dipping."

"Skinny-dipping?"

"Swim naked. Of course, I was never invited along. Not once. I was the strange white kid with the crazy gringo mom. So I took to going on the Sunday and swam around on my own. There's nothing sadder than skinny-dipping alone."

John stares across the water at the far side. There is nothing to see there so I presume he is accessing his memories. He stands up abruptly.

"Know what? I'm going in."

John removes his clothing and dives in. I do an infra-red scan of the water contents. Nothing with teeth any larger than a few inches. The surrounding scrub gives off a few white heat sources. Most likely small mammals and nocturnal rodents. Minimal threat.

John reaches the centre of the reservoir. "Well?" he shouts at me. "You coming in or not?"

I remove my clothing and plunge in, sinking several feet below the surface. I continue to sink. I lack a human's natural buoyancy. My mouth and nasal cavities fill with water. An amber alert icon blinks warning me of the increasing pressure on my body imposed by the water. My feet impact the bottom, stirring up sediment. Above John is a small white starfish shape on the surface. The moon is a tiny white disk refracted by the water.

It is peaceful at the bottom of the reservoir. Silent and dark. All living things have fled from my presence. I am perfectly alone.

In English class I learnt of Ralph Waldo Emerson, a dead human who once wrote, 'there is no privacy that cannot be penetrated'.

Ralph Waldo Emerson never stood at the bottom of a reservoir.

Time to leave.

I activate my leg servo-motors, kicking upwards to emerge on the surface. John is floating on his back a few feet away. I attempt to copy his movements but only succeed in sinking again. I realign my centre of gravity and resurface.

"The water's nice," John states,

"The water is 16 degrees Centigrade in temperature. The salinity less than 3 percent."

"That's not what I meant."

"Nice is a vague assessment."

John flips from the horizontal to vertical. His arms and legs make languid swirling motions below the surface. I mimic the action. A definite improvement.

"I didn't know you could swim."

"Neither did I."

"We live and learn, huh?"

"Then die and forget it all."

John takes a lungful of air and plunges beneath the surface. I calculate he will be able to stay safely submersed for one minute and 48 seconds. A small timer in my HUD begins to count down. I will give him one minute and 40 seconds then begin rescue operations.

But it is not necessary. After one minute and 12 seconds John resurfaces, gulping down air and brushing wet hair from his eyes.

"How long was I under?"

I inform him. He grimaces. "Yeah? It seemed longer."

Humans do not have internal clocks. Only small inefficiant mechanical devices worn on their wrists. John's is back on dry land with his pile of clothes.

"How long could you stay under for?"

I do the calculations. "One hundred and three years, six months, two weeks and three days."

"Approximately?"

"It seems quite precise."

"That's some set of lungs."

"I do not have lu-- But you already know this. It is an expression. A figure of speech. Correct?"

"Correct." John smiles, his teeth a bright crescent in the moonlit darkness. He is swimming slow clockwise circles around me. The circles become a spiral. Closer. Very close. Our bodies are almost touching...

A police siren sounds. Loud then fading away. Distant. And receding from us. Perhaps to one of the many crimes the city is prone to.

"Come on. We'd better get going. Mom's probably starting to worry.You climb out first."

"Why must I climb out first?"

"Who else is going to pull me out?"

**JOURNEY**

With the jeep's windows rolled down my hair dries quickly in the warm night breeze. We pull up to a stoplight and wait for the glowing red light to blink green. The red reminds me of something.

"Becca Shaughnessy's nickname is Big Red," I inform John. "Or sometimes just Red."

"Because of her hair."

"Yes. It is those damn Irish genes."

"Hey, I'm a Connor, so I've got my fair share of those genes."

I turn to face John. "Do I have genes?"

He glances at me then looks away. "No, Cam, I don't think you do."

"Not even damn Irish ones?"

"No. But hey, at least they won't turn your hair grey."

"Genes do this?"

"Among other things."

"Bummer."

It is not Monday, but the word feels appropriate.

**HOME**

We arrive home at 2.14am. We have been absent 3 hours and 12 minutes. Sarah Connor is still awake. She strides briskly across the room towards us as we enter.

"Where have you been? I've been calling your cell for the last hour."

"Uh - I guess it was a poor reception area."

"Did you dispose of the gun?"

"Yeah. That's not turning up any time ever. How are things here?"

"The squad cars have gone. No cops left behind."

"See? It's blowing over already. A week's time it'll all be back to normal."

"Perhaps. I still want us to be ready to move at a moment's notice."

"Sure, we can do that. I wonder how Derek likes his motel."

"Just as long as he doesn't frighten the maids."

I announce: "I will need to borrow the jeep."

Sarah Connor says, "How come?"

"I have left my underwear at the reservoir. I will retrieve it and resume my patrol."

"You left your und-- John, is there something you need to tell me?"

"Mom, it's not how it sounds."

"Really. Because it sounds exactly as it sounds."

I leave by the door and close it softly behind me.

John and his mother appear to have much to discuss.

**--**

**--**

**Certainly milked the Irish stereotype good and dry. Obviously, no offence intended.**

**I probably won't shadow the 2nd season with this fanfic. Events would just move too fast to keep up. Just kinda do my own **_**thang**_**. I've got some ideas for a 4th chapter. Maybe involve Louise. She deserves a comeuppance. **

**Hope it's not all too**_** One Tree Hill **_**for ya.**


	3. Chapter three

**4th chapter**

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**THURSDAY**

"I do not understand."

John sighs. "What this time?"

"The female character--"

"Marilyn Monroe."

"Yes. Why does she not recognise that the male character--"

"Tony Curtis."

"-- is the same person as the other female character?"

"Because he and Jack Lemmon are pretending to be women to escape being killed by the mob."

"But they share the same bone structure and facial characteristics. It is unfeasible she would be so easily fooled."

"Remember what she said? '_ I'm not too bright, I guess'_."

"She is retarded."

"Y'know, when I suggested we watch a movie together I didn't anticipate it turning into 50 Questions."

"You told me to ask questions if I was unsure of anything."

"Cam, you've asked like a hundred in 30 minutes."

This is incorrect. It is 29 in 84 minutes.

"Can we just watch the end of the movie?"

John turns his attention back to the screen. We are seated together on the couch. Our feet up on the coffeee table facing the TV set. Chillin'. This is chilling without the gee. John has an half empty Bud beside him. I declined his offer of a can of WD40. I am 78 percent certain this was a joke or humorous remark

_**Osgood, I'm gonna level with you. We can't get married at all. **_

_**Why not? **_

_**Well... ln the first place, I'm not a natural blonde. **_

_**Doesn't matter. **_

_**l smoke. l smoke all the time.**_

_**l don't care. **_

_**l have a terrible past. For three years I've been living with a saxophone player. **_

_**l forgive you. **_

_**l can never have children. **_

_**We can adopt some. **_

_**You don't understand, Osgood. - I'm a man. **_

_**Nobody's perfect. **_

The movie ends. I say, "I do not understand." John groans. "He deceived Osgood by pretending to be something he was not, yet Osgood still wishes to marry him."

"That's love for you, I guess."

"I am pretending to be something I am not."

"I noticed."

"Would you wish to marry me?"

John stares at me for a moment then looks away. "It's still light out, let's go get some fresh air."

"The room is adequately ventilated."

"We can throw the ball around. I'll get my catchers mitt."

"You say I throw too hard."

"You do throw too hard. It's like fielding a cannonball. I tell you but you never listen."

_"I'm not too bright, I guess."_

**FRIDAY**

Becca Shaughnessy asks me to another sleepover, adding, "Mom's in rehab drying out so this time we can really let our hair down and party."

I say, "I will have to ask John."

"Your brother? Is he the boss of you?"

"Yes. John is the boss of me."

"Say goodbye to 30 years of feminism."

"Goodbye."

Becca laughs. "God, you should be a comedienne! You're funnier than Sarah Silverman."

We go and find John who is standing by the lockers with his new friend Riley, who says, "Sleepovers? Do people still have those? I outgrew them when I was ten. They're a sign of immaturity."

"Oh yeah?" Becca holds her middle finger up. "Know what this is a sign of?"

"Real mature, Rusty."

"Don't call me that! I hate being called Rusty."

"I know you do...Rusty. Come on, John. Leave the children to their kids games."

They depart. John didn't speak to me or give me instructions of any kind. Perhaps the decision is mine to make.

"I hate that girl," Beccas announces. "She's such a skank."

"Is that her nickname, skank? I thought it was Shauna's. And Emilia. And Rachel. And Sophia. And--"

"Whoa, time out, acid queen. When did you become such a bitch?"

"Bitch is Louise's nickname, not mine."

"I'm beginning to wonder. So, you gonna hang out with me or not?"

"I will hang out with you."

Becca grins. "Cool. You wait till you see what I've got planned. Kids games? We'll show 'em kids games."

**END OF SCHOOL**

"You are travelling in the wrong direction."

We are in Becca's Lexus and she has turned left onto the turnpike and not right for downtown and the street she lives on.

"Oh we're not going home. See the case in the back? There's 20 thousand dollars in there. That's ten each. I maxxed out mom's credit card. We're going to Vegas."

"Vegas?"

"Wild, huh? We'll hit the tables, overnight there and drive back in the morning. See my purse? Open it. Go on, it won't bite."

I open the purse. She is correct it doesn't bite.

"Take out my ID and read it."

I do so. "It states your name is Honey Bell. And you are 21."

"Isn't it great? I bought a fake ID off Ramona's brother. I think he's in a gang or something. Say goodbye to Becca Shaughnessy, potato queen of southern California, and hello to Honey Bell. She's a philosophy major at Vassar. She likes walks in the forest, the Ramones and wants to help children in the third world someday, and do all kinds of other third worldly crap. And check it out - no freckles. Photoshop."

I replace the card in her purse. It has a barcode on the reverse. In the future all humans captured and enslaved by Skynet will have barcodes seared into their flesh. Photoshop will not be required.

**VEGAS**

The drive takes almost four hours. The highway crosses dry desertland dotted with scrub and tall cacti until it reaches the city, which is filled with neonlit buildings like giant mesas rising out of the ground.

"It's so beautiful," Becca sighs. "Daddy used to attend real estate conentions here and sometimes he'd take me with him. Once he won a quarter of a mill at the tables and bought mom a diamond necklace and me a huge teddy bear that was so big it wouldn't fit in the car. We had to strap it to the roof." She smiles sadly. "Those were the best times..."

"You miss your father."

"I suppose I do. You miss yours?"

I consider the question. "My father is part of me."

"_Aww_, Cam, that's so sweet. Remind me to give you a hug later."

**HOTEL**

We check in and go up to our room, which is large with a walk-in clothes closet and a balcony overlooking the Strip, as the street below is called. Becca opens a small cabinet beside the bed.

"Minibar! Heads up, Cam. Incoming. WMD. Weapons of Mass Dissipation." She tosses me a miniature bottle with some pale liquid inside. "A little dutch courage all the way from Mex-i-co. _Salut!"_

_"Salut!"_

"I've brought two cocktail dresses for us to wear," she says, opening her case on the bed. "I had to guess your size, but let's face it you'd look hotter than me in a potato sack."

"I have never worn a potato sack before."

"Ha! Don't talk too soon. You haven't seen what I've brought yet."

We put on the dresses. They are both bright and shiny and leave our shoulders bare. Becca's is very lowcut at the front. I warn her, "Do not pop two out."

She giggles. "I'm not making promises I can't keep. If it wasn't for my boobs boys wouldn't notice me at all."

"Boys notice boobs?"

"Only when their eyes are open."

"But that is the majority of the time."

"_D'uh! _Hey, I've just had a crazy idea - while we're in Vegas let's get our noses pierced."

"No."

"Tongues?"

No."

"Nip--"

"No."

"Spoilsport. Okay, I've got our money, fake ID, Jimmy Choo's...how's my hair look? Too much product?"

"It is still red."

"Tell me about it. Once I bleached it blonde and mom was so loaded she thought I was a burgler and chased me out of the house. I had to sleep in the car. Can you believe it?"

"Yes." Becca's heartrate and respiration are normal. She is telling the truth.

**CASINO**

We enter the casino, which is a large room filled with people and tables upon which they gamble money on the outcome of various games."

"Head for the roulette," Becca advises. "That's where Daddy won bigtime. Let's try our luck."

We sit down at the roulette table. Becca exchanges the money for plastic tokens. "That's all there is," she whispers handing me half. "So don't spend it all at once."

I observe the roulette. A casino employee launches a small white ball into a wheel which has 37 slots in it. The ball goes one way the wheel spins the other. Gravity and friction combine to slow the velocity whereupon it settles into one of the slots. A simple algorithm tells me which slot it will fall into. The number four.

"Four. Black. Even," declares the casino employee, who is called a croupier.

No one wins, including Becca who placed 100 dollars on number seven. She groans in frustration; math is not her strongest subject.

On the next spin I push all my chips on to twenty-one. Becca whispers, "Cam, that's half our stake!"

The wheel slows. The ball slots home.

"Twenty-one. Red. Odd."

The croupier smiles at me as he pushes a large pile of tokens in my direction. His gaze flits across my boobs. Becca was correct; his eyes are open.

"Omigod! Cam, you just won 360,000 dollars!"

This is called stating the obvious.

On the next spin I place another ten thousand on the number two. The ball rattles home.

"Two. Black. Even."

On the next turn of the wheel I hesitate then decline to bet.

"What's wrong? You're on a roll, girlfriend."

"Wait."

"Zero."

The croupier rakes in everyone's tokens. There are groans around the table. Can everybody here be poor at math? It appears so.

I place another ten thousand on thirty-four.

"Thirty-four. Black. Even."

Beside me Becca is jumping up and down. People round the table are smiling and laughing.

Suddenly a man in a dark suit and dark sunglasses materialises next to the croupier. He is not smiling or laughing. His arms are folded and he stares directly at me. I do not recognise him but I know what he represents.

Authority.

I have been noticed. I sense danger. It is time to leave.

"We have to go," I inform Becca.

"What? But we only just got here."

"We have to go. Now." I pull her away from the table.

"Wait. What about the money?"

"Bring it if you wish."

"You bet I wish!"

We exchange the tokens for cash. It amounts to one million and eighty thousand dollars. Becca seems excited by this.

"Omigod! Half's mine, right? Fair's fair.I brought it."

"You may have it all."

"No. Half each is fair. Omigod, we're rich!"

The cash is placed in a nylon holdall with the hotel logo on the side. Becca carries it and we ride the elevator up to our room. Inside, I tell her, "Pack your things, we are leaving."

"No way. It's still early. I want to party."

She is being stubborn. I will instruct her one final time. If she refuses to accompany me I will throw her off the balcony and continue alone.

"We must leave. Now."

"But I--It's the money, isn't it? You cheated."

"I did not cheat."

"But you did something. No one wins big three times in a row. And now we're in trouble, yes?

"Yes."

"Give me a second to get my stuff."

Becca disappears into the bathroom. There is a knock on the door. I open it. Outside is the man from the casino. Dark hair, dark suit, dark sunglasses.

"Excuse me, Miss. But I believe you dropped this in the corridor." He hands me a thick roll of hundred dollar bills. "You should be more careful. There are some bad people about who would do just about anything for that much money."

I smile and say, "I'm not too bright, I guess."

"So it seems. May I come in? There are some irregularities concerning your ID."

I allow him past and close the door. Becca is still in the bathroom.

"You realise that here in Nevada underage gambling is a federal offence? We take that very seriously. You and your friend are in a lot of troub--"

I snap his head back, fracturing the third vertebra in his spinal cord. He crumples. I catch him before he hits the floor and drag him inside the clothes closet. I frisk his body. No weapons but I pocket the pager and cellphone. I close and lock the door, squeezing the handle so the metal distorts ensuring the key will no longer work.

Becca emerges from the bathroom. "Okay. All set. Who was at the door?"

"A man from the casino."

"Where is he?"

"Lying dead on the closet floor. We go. Now." I grab her by the arm.

"Huh? What was that about the closet? Wait. Cam, you're hurting me."

We take the back staircase to the basement garage. I place the suitcase in the trunk of the Lexus. Becca refuses to part with the bag containing the money.

"No. I'm not letting it out of my sight."

"Very well. I will drive."

We head up the ramp into open air. Above I notice a small camera positioned on the arch to observe exiting vehicles.

"We will need a new car."

"Okay. I guess we can afford it. The clutch was going anyway."

**THE SHOWROOM**

We find a dealership a few blocks from the Strip. I park the Lexus in the shadows.

Becca says, "Oh cool. Ferraris. I always wanted an Italian car."

She walks toward the showroom. I begin to follow when the casino man's cellphone vibrates. I flip it open. A male voice says, "Rosselli? That you?"

I mimic the casino man's voice. "This is Rosselli."

"Where are you, man? The Boss wants to know if you've got the money back from those twinks."

"The money's safe. The twinks won't cause us any more problems."

" Okay. Nice catch. Good work, Rosselli."

I ring off and crush the cell in my hand, dropping it on the sidewalk. I follow Becca inside.

The showroom is brightly lit with shiny vehicles dominating the foreground. A young human male in a dark suit, bright tie and even brighter teeth greets us. A laminate nametag on his left lapel suggests his name is Richard.

"Good evening, ladies. Can I be of assistance?"

"We're in the market for a new set of wheels," Becca explains. "Richard - is that your name? Are you Richie or Dick for short? Because you look a bit like a Dick, doesn't he, Cam?"

"You look like a Dick," I confirm. Becca giggles. I do not know why.

"You can call me anything you wish, Miss...?"

"Belle. Honey Bell. But you can call me Hun for short. This is my friend. Her name's Cameron, which is short for, er, Cameroonie. And we want you, Dick, to show us what you've got."

"O-kay. Do you have any particular model in mind?"

"This one's nice." Becca indicates a red vehicle nearby.

"Excellent taste. This is a Ferrari 328. A classic example. Full spec. Very little mileage. This model was once owned by Wayne Newton."

"And that's a good thing?"

"Uh - he's one of our finest headliners."

"But he's old. Haven't you got anything that was owned by Johnny Depp?"

"I'm afraid not."

"Kurt Cobain?"

"No."

"Eddie Vedder?"

"The 328 has a V12 engine developing 390 BHP at 6,000 RPM."

"See, guy's always do that."

"Miss?"

"Come out with all that macho bullshit about revs and torgue and RPM. But what I want to know is - if I drive this will a cute guy want to date me?"

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I mean okay, I've got red hair, skin that nevers tans and freckles where no one should ever have freckles - jeez, enough already. But I'm not the Elephant Man, right? So if I drive this will cute guy's want to ask me out?"

"I'm sure they would fall over themselves to ask you out."

Becca smiles. "Then we'll take it."

"It's 98,000 thousand dollars."

Becca takes rolls of hundred dollar bills from the holdall and places them one by one on the vehicle's hood.

"Tell me when to stop."

**THE HIGHWAY**

The Ferrari is powerful and more responsive to drive than the Lexus. But I observe the speed limit. This is no time to attract undue attention from the police.

This is called being a responsible motorist.

We stop once enroute to the Interstate. Becca insists on buying some supplies from a supermart. She has not eaten for several hours. I wait in the car.

"_Woo_, look what I've got! Nachos. Bags and bags of nachos. Cowboy hats for us both. And champagne. They didn't even want to see my fake ID. I love Vegas!"

She puts a cowboy hat on my head and one on her own.

"Look at us. We're Butch and Sundance, baby! Bonnie and Clyde. Thelma and freaking Louise!"

I put the Ferrari in gear and drive away. Becca opens a bottle of champagne. The cork flies high in the air and is carried away in our slipstream. She takes several long swallows then hands me the bottle. I drink some to show willing.

A bag of nacho snacks is torn open. They fly everywhere. "Shit. Look at the mess. What am I like, honestly? My lovely new Ferrari. I'll get it valeted back in LA."

Becca tugs the rim of her cowboy hat low on her forehead and peers at me from beneath it. "So how'd you do it, Butch?"

"Do what?"

"Win all that money. Come on, you can tell Sundance. You picked the correct numbers three times. What are the odds of that?"

"A billion to one."

"So how'd you do it? Is it something to do with how you're this big maths geek at school who aces every test?"

"Yes."

"Omigod - you know who you are? Rainman!"

"I do not know this person."

"And if you're Rainman, that makes me the other guy._ Woo hoo_, Katie Holmes is hot!" she yells into the night. "Mankind is descended from freaky space aliens!"

"You are talking nonsense."

"_D'uh_ - I'm Tom Cruise!"

Becca attempts to open the second bottle but it tumbles into the footwell.

"Shit. I'm not drunk, 'kay? I'm not mom. I know my limits."

"One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor."

"S'right. What are you going to do with your share of the money?"

"Bury it in a hole in the ground."

Becca giggles. "Oh Cam, you're so funny! I'm so glad you're my friend. You're not like those tightass bitches at school. Me, I'm going to buy..._everything!"_

"There is not enough to buy everything," I point out.

"...and I'll get it all giftwrapped with ribbons and bows and pretty maids all in a row!"

She picks up some stray nachos and forces them into her mouth. Several stick to her cheeks.

"D'you think boys will like me now I'm rich?"

"I do not know."

"They didn't before. D'you think your brother will like me? Because I really like him. I mean, I really really like him."

I suffer another software glitch that causes my right leg to go rigid, fully depressing the gas pedal. The Ferrari surges forward and strikes the rear of the vehicle in front, causing it to swerve off the highway and fishtail round in a cloud of desert sand.

"_Omigod! _Stop the car."

"We must keep moving."

"But those people could be hurt."

I glance behind. The vehicle is intact. The passengers are getting out.

"They are unharmed."

"Hey! We're really _sorr-rree_!" Becca yells back at them, half out of her seat. "Here. have some money for your trouble."

She throws a thick roll of cash out of the Ferrari. It falls shorts and lies there on the tarmac.

"Why did you do that?" I ask.

"Daddy once told me that money makes everything better. Pull over. Let me drive."

"You are intoxicated."

"Am not! FYI, I'm sober as a fudge. Judge. A fudge-judge." She giggles uncontrollably. "A fudge-judge,_ hahaha_! Oh I'm so-_oo_ wasted."

We drive on, leaving Vegas behind.

"Stop the car." Becca requests.

"No."

"Stop the car. I need to pee real bad. I mean it. Any second you're gonna be sat next to a lawn sprinkler."

I steer off the highway and bring the Ferrari to a halt. Becca opens the door and dashes into the desert. The other vehicles hurtle past. None slow or stop or show any interest in us.

Presently Becca returns. She looks forlorn and dishevelled.

"I fell over and sat on a cactus!" she wails. "I've got cactus spines in my butt. And I peed on my shoes. My beautiful Jimmy Choos." She bursts into tears. "I fell over and peed myself. I'm turning into my mom, aren't I?"

"There are behavioural similarities."

Becca's dress has slipped down. "You have popped one out." I inform her.

"What? Oh." She hitches her dress up. "I'm such a screwup."

"Nobody's perfect."

**HOME**

I drive on through the night. Becca falls asleep in a foetal position, a nacho snack still attached to her cheek. I reach across, pick it off and pop it into my mouth. It tastes of chemicals.

I stop for gas near the turn off for Los Angeles. I pay the attendent and add a hundred dollar bill as a tip. He smiles at me and says, "Gee, that's mighty generous of you, miss."

I smile back and say, "Money makes everything better."

"Ain't that the truth. Drive safe now."

We arrive at Becca's house at dawn. I park the Ferrari in the driveway and carry Becca's sleeping body up to her room and lay her on the bed. I stand by the window where I can see the street. It is unlikely anyone followed us, but I will keep vigil anyway.

At 8.09am Becca's pet cat, Mr Babbykins, enters the room and hisses at me. I grab him by the scruff of the neck and hold him up to my face. He struggles and spits and tries to scratch me.

"Cease. Or die."

I drop the cat. He scurries away. 42 minutes later he is back. He has a dead rodent, a mouse, in his jaws. He drops it by my feet then retreats to a safe distance to watch my reaction.

It is evidently a peace offering of sorts. I pick the mouse up and take two bites then toss the remains back to him. He devours it. Satisfied, Mr Babbykins approaches me and rubs himself against my legs making a low humming sound in his throat.

It appears I have made a new friend.

At 10.15 Becca stirs. "Cam, is that you? My head hurts."

"I will get you a seconal."

"Wait. I had this amazing dream. We went to Vegas and won a million dollars. I bought a Ferrari and..." she trails off staring at the holdall containing the money I placed at the end of her bed. "It isn't a dream?"

"It is reality."

"I think I'm going to be sick."

Becca rushes to the bathroom and kneels with her head in the ceramic bowl while she vomits up her stomach contents. I stand behind her holding her hair back.

This is what friends do.

**--000--**

**The movie was of course **_**'Some Like It Hot'**_**. The theme of the chapter was Deception so I dropped in a few lines here and there.**

**Apparently, in lab conditions, it is feasible to predict roulette by plotting velocity, friction, contact points, etc. In the first draft I had Cam counting cards. But blackjack's dullsville to write so I switched to roulette. Either way,**_** kerching.**_


	4. Chapter four

**chapter 5**

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**SUNDAY**

The day is warm and sunny yet I choose to spend it inside the house working on my school science project which is due tomorrow. There is still much to do. And very little time left.

My trip to Vegas with Becca Shaughnessy remains a secret. I have not told anyone, least of all John. My half of the money is buried in the yard. It will not earn interest there but I do not care.

This is called being financially irresponsible.

John spends his afternoon jogging. Cardiovascular exercise is very important to humans but less so to machines. It probably helps if you have lungs. And a heart.

The door opens at 4 o'clock and John enters. He has been gone 2 hours and 5 minutes. Long enough for a run of 10 miles. Normally I would have accompanied him, but since the reservoir incident Sarah Connor is less insistent on my going places alone with her son. She has not explained why.

"Hey."

"Hey," I reply.

John takes a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator and drinks the contents. Hydration is also very important for humans. Again, it helps if you have a stomach.

"What you doing?" John asks.

"My science project."

"What is it?"

"I am designing an autonomous cybernetic organism. Or ACO for short."

"Sounds ambitious. You realise most of the other kids will probably show up with a potato clock."

"A potato clock?"

"Yeah. A couple of electrodes stuck into a potato. Maybe a tangerine if they're feeling creative. Add an LCD readout and _voila_ a clock."

"That sounds cripple."

"Lame. You mean lame."

"Yes. Lame. Sorry for my mistake."

"Let me see it."

"It is not finished."

"Doesn't matter. Let me see."

I place my ACO on the floor for John to observe. He laughs. Some mineral water squirts out of his nose.

"Cam, that's a Roboraptor. It's a kid's toy."

"It is an ACO."

"No, it's a toy dinosaur. You buy them for like 90 bucks at any Radio Shack."

"I found it in a dumpster."

"You can't enter that in the science fayre. People will laugh. You'll get a failing grade."

"But I have made significant modifications to the original design."

"Okay. Knock me out."

"You wish to be rendered unconscious?"

"Show me what it does."

I press a button on the modified cellphone I use to control the Roboraptor's CPU.

"_**RRROOOAAARRRR!"**_ It roars at maximum decibels.

John puts his hands over his ears. "Man, that's loud. How did you do that?"

"I incorporated a subwoofer from a boombox I also found in the dumpster. Along with several microchips from cell phones, an old laptop computer and a dead cat. It is curious what humans throw away as trash."

"You didn't bring the dead cat home, did you?"

"No. It was surplus to requirements."

"What is that - some kind of animal recording?"

"Yes. I recorded the sounds of various creatures off the Discovery Channel and mixed them together as I do not have actual recordings of dinosaur vocal patterns."

"No one does. They've been extinct for millions of years. Does it do anything else?"

"I have upgraded the limb servo-motors and redesigned its ambulation functions which were so primitive it kept falling over."

I press another button on the remote. The Roboraptor begins to move around the room at a brisk 5mph, loping along on its hind legs while the head scans from side to side using a dedicated laser rangefinder.

John says, "Wow. Look at it go. I take it all back. Incredible, Cam. It even dodges around furniture."

"Yes. I incorporated a selfawareness algorithm and an obstacle recognition program. I am hoping to upgrade and make it fully AI."

Derek Reese enters the room.

"What was that noise? You okay, kid? It sounded like some kind of bear was loose."

"No bear. Meet Cameron's science project."

"What the--Shit, what is that thing?"

"An autonomous cybernetic organism. Or ACO for short."

"Bullshit. It's a tiny dog you covered in plastic, right?"

"Wrong."

The Roboraptor spots Derek Reese and roars. It advances towards him and unhinges its jaw.

"Hey, what's it doing? That piece of crap can't bite, can it?"

"All carniverous animals can bite," I explain. "Roboraptor is no exception. I have also upgraded its jaw mechanism and added titanium teeth."

The Roboraptor lunges at Derek Reese and closes its jaw around his left leg.

"Shit! Get it off me."

John says, "It won't hurt him, will it?"

"It is possible he may lose a foot. Nothing more serious that that."

"Okay, joke's over, tinbitch, call it off."

I press the cancel button. Nothing happens. The Roboraptor is still firmly attached to Derek Reese's leg.

"There appears to be a control malfunction."

"It's cutting through my damn pants! I can feel it. Get it off. Now!"

John grabs the plastic torso and pulls. It comes away with a slice of Derek Reese's damn pants in its jaws. John places it on the floor. Derek Reese kicks it.

_"Sonofabitch!"_

The roboraptor hits the wall and drops to the floor. It is still.

Sarah Connor enters the room and asks, "What's going on in here? What's all the noise?"

"That damn thing over there tried to chew my leg off!"

"That? It's a toy, Derek. For God's sake, grow a pair."

"I'm telling you it tried to attack me!"

"What kind of example is this to John? Nut up. It's just a toy."

"But it--Ah, screw this You're never gonna believe me."

Derek Reese stalks out. Sarah Connor shrugs and also leaves the room.

John picks the roboraptor up and hands it to me. "I don't think he damaged it too badly. Perhaps you can mend him."

"Him? How do you know it is male? I have not added external genitalia."

"And I'd keep it that way if I were you."

I examine the mechanisms. "There is no damage. The batteries are drained. I require a more reliable power source. Radioactive isotope would be ideal."

"I think they're having a sale on that at K-Mart."

"Then I will go and purchase some. Do we have coupons?"

"Cam, I was kidding. No one sells radioactive isotope. It's probably illegal to even own the stuff. You'll have to make do with a couple of D-cells or something."

**NIGHT**

Everyone is asleep. Even Derek Reese, although the noise from his room suggests he is wide awake and playing a musical instrument, a bass cello perhaps, it is in fact only his snoring, adenoidal rumblings that apparently are perfectly natural.

I walk into the kitchen and open a drawer, taking out a sharp bladed knife. I remove my halter top and put it to one side. With the knife I carve a t-shaped incision in my lower abdomen, peeling back the layer of articial skin to reveal the coltan beneath. What little blood analog there is I mop away with a kleenex. I remove my spare powercell and place it carefully on the counter. If it ruptures it will explode and destroy the house and much of the surrounding neighbourhood.

This would attract unwanted attention from the neighbours. Those that survive.

**WARNING**

I overide the amber alert icon that flashes in my HUD. Using a small basting pipette I extract a few CC's of radioactive isotope from the powercell. Once I have enough I replace the powercell in its armoured chamber. From the bathroom I take some waxed thread humans use to clean teeth and unspool about a meter's worth. I thread it through a needle and begin to sew up the flaps of skin on my abdomen. I stare at the result in the mirror. The sutures are hardly visible.

Topless I return to the kitchen area. I lift the roboraptor on to the counter and delicately load the radiactive isotope into the adapted fuelcell. I set to work modifying the other components. The enhanced longevity will also provide more power overall, increasing the load on vital body parts. I need to strengthen them substantially.

At 4.06 am Sarah Connor emerges from her room and walks into the kitchen. She pours a glass of water and drinks half of it. She notices me.

"Forget your underwear again? This is becoming a habit. Suppose it was John standing here now - or is that what you were waiting for?"

"I was not waiting for anything."

"Put your top on," Sarah Connor commands. "You want to walk around naked go live in a zoo. But not under my roof or in front of my son. He's got enough distractions in his life without your breasts adding to them."

"How will my breasts distract John?"

"You really don't get it, do you?" She drinks the rest of the glass of water. "When I was locked in the psych ward there was a patient in the cell next to mine who when the docs came round with the meds used to yell, _'quis custodiet ipsos custodes' _at the top of his voice_. _You know what this means?"

"_Quis custodiet ipsos custodes_. Who will watch the watchers."

"That's right. You know latin?"

"I am fluent in all languages."

"You're watching my son, but I'm watching you. Never forget that. Now put your damn top on."

I don my halter top. Sarah Connor returns to her bedroom and closes the door. She did not notice the wound in my abdomen. This is good. Ask me no questions and I will tell you no lies.

I pick up the basting pipette. It is useless now it is contaminated but it is important to dispose of radioactive waste safely and responsibly.

I drop it in the pedal bin.

**MONDAY**

John and I board the jeep for the ride to school. John sits in the front next to his mother; I'm in the back with my science project dormant in a cardboard container beside me.

"Got everything?" Sarah Connor twists in her seat to ask me.

"Yes."

"School work?"

"Yes."

"Underwear?"

"Yes."

"Let's try and keep it that way."

John says, "Mom, if this is about the reservoir I explained it all. It was my idea not Cameron's, so please let's drop it."

Sarah Connor does not reply. She puts the jeep in gear and we drive off.

**SCHOOL**

Tables are set up in the gymnasium for the science fayre. Morris waves us over.

"Hey man, what'd you make?" John asks.

"Check it out. Ordinary baseball cap, right?"

"Yeah."

"Wrong. Mp3 player. Photo-voltaic panels on top, so no need for batteries. You control it by the touch controls on the peak. Earbuds drop down. Bluetooth connects to your laptop."

"Pretty cool, man."

Becca Shaughnessy, my best and only friend arrives. She spots me and comes over, a white cardboard container like my own under her arm.

"Hey, Cam. John. Uh - don't know you."

"This is Morris. John's friend," I explain.

"What's in the box?" Morris asks.

"My science project. Ladies and gents, I give you - an advocado clock!"

Becca takes a medium size green fruit with wires sticking out of it from the box and places it on the table.

"It tells time. It's a stopwatch. It's...a piece of crap, isn't it?" Becca forces her fingers through her thick red hair. "Oh God, it's so incredibly lame. I had no time. I've been hungover all weekend."

"It's the first advocado," Morris points out. "There's an orange over there. A potato. Several cantaloupes. But yours is the first advocado clock. That's gotta count for something."

Becca strikes her forehead with the base of her palm. "Lame. Lame. Lame."

"What did you bring, Cameron?" Morris asks.

"An autonomous cybernetic organism."

I remove the lid of the cardboard container and take the roboraptor out. I place it on the floor.

"Isn't that a kids toy?"

"Give it a second, man," John tells Morris. "Uh Cam, you did manage to iron out the - ah - software problems?"

"What software problems?" Morris enquires.

"Sometimes it bites," I explain.

The roboraptor boots up. Its head moves from side to side. Its jaws open. The laser rangefinder strobes out across the gym.

_**"RROOOAAAAAARRRRR!"**_

Everyone in the room stops what they are doing and turns and stares. The roboraptor begins to move around the floor with long loping strides. It dodges between legs and under tables. Several girls scream as it brushes past them.

"Please remain calm," I advise. "It is scanning its enviroment and establishing a 3D realtime topography in its onboard data cache."

Becca says, "It's_ so-oo-oo _cute. I want one for christmas."

The roboraptor returns to my side. Several students move tables to be further away. This is their perogative. It is a free country after all. For a few more years at least.

Becca says, "Ah, Cam, can I have a word with you? In private."

I look to John. He says, "Sure. Go ahead. I'll look after...does it have a name?"

"Autonomous cybernetic organism."

"Catchy."

Becca and I move to a quiet corner of the hall. She says, "I still can't believe what we did in Vegas. Half a million dollars each! Have you spent any of yours?"

"None."

"I've bought mom a new Lexus. She won't notice the difference and I'm not going to tell her. I've rented a lockup for the Ferrari. I've even thinking of having some plastic surgery - d'you think doctors could graft a supermodel's face over mine?"

"Such an operation is beyond present technology."

"Yeah, you're right. That stuff only happens in movies. Uh, listen - when we were Vegas I didn't say or do anything stupid when I was high, did I? I don't remember much."

"You said and did many stupid things," I inform her.

"God, I knew it. Just tell me if I got fresh with you."

"Fresh?"

"I didn't try and make out, did I? Only when mom's loaded she gets kinda horny and I'm hoping it doesn't run in the family."

"You didn't try and make out."

"That's a load off. And I didn't mention any boys I liked?"

_**I like your brother. I mean, I really really like your brother.**_

"No," I lie. "You didn't mention any boys."

"Okay then. I tell you, Cam, after that hangover I'm never drinking again."

"You are lying," I point out. All my sensors concur. The indicators are off the scale. This is an outright lie.

"What? No, I'm not. I really mean it."

"This is another lie."

"Hey, quit being a bitch. I'm being sincere. I'm never drinking again."

I do not reply. She is still lying, but it is possible she is not aware of it.

This is called fooling no one but yourself.

We walk back to the table. John asks, "Everything okay?"

"Fine," Becca replies. "Girl stuff. Hey, John - can I ask you a question?"

"Sure. What is it?"

"Do you like Ferraris?"

"Uh, I guess so. Why?"

Becca smiles. "No reason."

_**Kill her. Kill her now.**_

I suppress the termination order before it reaches the command nodes. These glitches are becoming more frequent; I will run a thorough self-diagnostic later.

"Cameron Baum? Is Cameron Baum here?"

A girl enters the gym calling my name. It is Louise, the deputy leader of the cheerleading squad and the all mighty bitch-queen of the universe.

"Over here," Becca calls out. "Oh it's you, Louise. What d'you want?"

Louise walks over. She has a peculiar way of walking, swaying her hips in an exaggerated fashion. I asked Becca about this and she replied, "Yeah, she likes to bait the hook, doesn't she? The little slut."

Louise says, "Hey, Baum, got some news for you. You're off the cheerleading squad."

Becca says, "What? No way."

"This is nothing to do with you, Becca. So keep your freckly butt out, okay?"

"What is your deal, Louise? Why is Cameron off the squad?"

"Candy Ackermann's ankle got all better. Last in is first out. Those are the rules."

"I saw Candy Ackermann in the parking lot. Her ankle's still bandaged up."

"Candy's fine. Handful of Percodans never hurt no one. So you're out, Baum. Return your outfit, even though we'll probably have to burn it."

"What does Cassie say about this?" Becca demands. Cassie is the leader. The Big Cheese.

"Cassie's off sick with the flu. I'm in charge now and what I say goes. Baum's out. See ya...wouldn't want to be ya."

_**"RRROOOOAAARRR!"**_

The roboraptor comes to life, its laser beam scanning Louise from head to toe and committing her physical contours to RAM.

"Jeez, what the hell is that thing?"

"My science project."

Louise takes a step back. "What's that red light? Get it off me."

"The light will not harm you."

"You're a freak, Baum. You're off the squad, hear? Permanently. You and your little doggie too."

Louise turns to leave. The roboraptor follows her. John leans close and whispers to me.

"Call it off. You're causing a scene. A teacher will show up any minute.

I press the recall code on the modified cell. There is no response. The roboraptor continues to track Louise.

"There is another malfunction."

Louise notices her tracker. "Hey, what's it doing? Keep it away from me. This isn't funny."

The roboraptor unhinges its jaw and assumes attack mode.

Louise screams and runs out the door, the roboraptor at her heels.

"Shit!" John exclaims. "Get after her. She's bare legged. If that thing bites her..."

John and I exit the gym. Louise is racing down the corridor with the roboraptor loping along behind her. She dodges into an empty cassroom and attempts to slam the door, but the roboraptor lowers its head and butts it open. Louise screams again.

John and I slow to walking pace as a teacher emerges from another classroom.

"Baum? What's going on? Did I hear someone scream?"

"Uh, yessir, you did. I think it came from the gym."

"Good lord. Can't you be trusted not to kill each other for five minutes?"

The teacher heads along the corridor towards the gym. We enter the classroom.

"Louise, no!" John yells.

Louise is halfway out of a window. The roboraptor leaps onto the adjacent desk and snaps its jaws at her fingers. She screams, releases her grip on the sill and falls from sight. It is fortunate we are on the first floor. The roboraptor leaps after her.

"Shit. This had to be your science project? You couldn't make a potato clock like everyone else?"

"A potato clock is lame."

"But at least it doesn't try and eat the other students. Come on, let's go after her."

We climb out of the window and skirt the building, heading for the parking lot.

"What's the battery life on this thing -- 20-30 minutes?"

"Fifteen years."

"From a couple of D-cells? No way."

I explain the modifications I made and the new source of power.

"So it's radioactive? This isn't a science project, it's Godzilla."

The sound of squealing tyres comes from the lot. We arrive in time to see Louise hurtle past in her opentop sportscar. The roboraptor's snout is down and it is in full pursuit mode, topspeed 30mph. They exit the school grounds and turn right into the downtown traffic flow.

John says, "We need wheels. And fast. Check the ignitions. Perhaps someone left their keys. And the sunvisors. Sometimes people keep a spare set hidden."

We go from vehicle to vehicle. I flip the sunvisor of a red convertible and a set of keys drop on the dash.

"John. Here."

"Get in. I'll drive."

John starts the engine and floors the throttle. We leave the school behind.

"I just hope this isn't a teacher's car."

I open the glove compartment. A balled up football jersey and a magazine fall out. The magazine is called:

**BIG NATURALS**

"Now I really hope it's not a teachers car. What are you doing? Put it back."

I examine the centerfold.

"These are freaking big."

John snatches the magazine away and throws it from the car.

"Don't you know how inappropriate that is? _Shit!"_

The car has drifted towards the opposite lane. Oncoming vehicles blare their horns. John hurriedly swerves back.

_"Dammit!"_

Sarah Connor is correct; John does find breasts distracting.

"So how come this thing went after Louise? It could've attacked anyone in that gym, but it picked her. And back at the house. It went for Derek, not me or mom. Did you program it to do this?"

"No. It has a rudimentary AI."

"Louise and Derek...if they have anything in common at all, it's that they both dislike you. You think maybe your subconcious got included in the programming somehow?"

"Do I have a subconcious?"

"You have subroutines. Systems that run in the background without you concentrating on them. Perhaps it got incorporated without you realising it."

"It is an extension of me, only with sharper teeth?"

"Well, something's got this thing all riled up. And it's not the price of dog biscuits."

The traffic thins. The way ahead is clear.

"See them?"

"No. Wait." I point. "Ahead. Her vehicle."

A white opentop sportscar has mounted the kerb, crossed the sidewalk and hit a wall. John parks nearby and we double back on foot. The vehicle is empty. The airbags have deployed, covering the seats with fine white powder.

"Where'd they go? Here. Let's try this alley."

We head down a narrow alley. After 80 meters it ends in a chainlink fence.

"Deadend. Go back."

I say, "Wait. There is blood on the fence."

"Louise?"

I run a finger over the drop of blood and transfer it to my tongue. The data appears instantly in my HUD.

"Analysis shows it is human blood. Fresh. Female. Three days past ovulation. I do not have Louise's blood type on file, but there is an 84 percent probability it is hers."

"Good enough. Lose the fence."

I tear the chainlink apart. We step through and proceed up a short rise, emerging on the lip of a vast concrete canyon that stretches away in both directions.

"What is this place?" I ask.

"The Los Angeles river. They concreted it in decades ago. Nothing much this time of year, but come here in the spring and this is a torrent of meltwater."

Louise and the roboraptor are halfway up the opposite side. Both are struggling to move due to the steepness of the slope.

"Louise, stay where you are!" John yells. "We're coming down."

"It keeps trying to bite me!" Louise yells back. "It won't leave me alone. Shoo! Shoo! Go away! Bad doggie! Bad!"

The roboraptor snaps its jaws and inches closer.

John and I find a part of the slope that is less steep and descend onto the canyon floor.

"Not long now, Louise. Hang in there."

Louise's shoes are missing. Her feet are bare and dirty. She has scratches and abrasions to both legs. It is likely these were caused by the chainlink fence and the harsh surface rather than the roboraptor. Its bites would produce more blood. And missing limbs.

We climb higher. The roboraptor edges closer to Louise, just inches away now.

Louise panics. She screams and launches herself down the slope. The roboraptor's jaws snap shut where her leg was a second ago. It takes a moment to realise its prey has escaped.

_**"RRROOOAAARRRR!"**_

The robraptor charges after Louise, who has a three meter headstart.

"Shit, we're not going to get there in time," John says. He scans the rest of the canyon. "Cam, is that thing waterproof?"

"No."

John cups his mouth and yells, "Louise, head for that pool of water! There. To your left."

An open pipe in the face of the concrete wall leaks water that forms first a gully and then a stagnant pool at the lowest part of the canyon floor. It is no more than six meters in diameter.

Louise veers towards it. She splashes in, stumbles and disappears beneath the surface. The water is not deep, eighteen inches at most. She splutters upright, her long blonde hair now dark and wet and slicked back from her face.

"I stepped in poop! This is a sewage pipe! I'm getting out."

"No! Stay where you are!" John yells. "Look. It can't get you in the water."

This is correct. The roboraptor refuses to enter the pool. It circles the waters edge, snapping its jaw impotently.

"It smells like poop! I've got it in my hair. Poop! Oh so gross! I think I'm going to barf."

"It's rainwater runoff," John explains, as we close in. "There was rain over Supulveda last night. It probably drains in here. Not sewage."

"It's cold and smelly and I don't like it. Make that horrible thing go away. I hate it."

"I'm going to grab it," John tells me. "I guess we'll find out if my theory's right."

But the roboraptor spots John approaching and leaves the pool perimeter, loping away up the canyon. John stops. So does the roboraptor. They eye each other from a distance of twenty meters.

"Damn. We can't take the risk of it getting loose in the city. I've got an idea. How's your arm?"

"My arm is fine, thank you for asking," I reply.

"Not what I meant. Remember back home, you tossing the ball into my catchers mitt?"

"Yes. You say I throw too hard. Like a cannonball."

"Well, take your boots off and make like that thing's my catchers mitt. Slowly. Don't spook it."

I remove my left boot, heft it, calculate distance and velocity, then throw.

The boot strikes the roboraptor a glancing blow. It topples over. It struggles to right itself but before it can do so John scoops it up and deposits it in the pool of water.

Louise screams. "What are you doing? Don't! It'll bite me!"

She topples backwards under the water then stands quickly spluttering and coughing. "It's in my mouth! I got poop in my mouth!"

"It's sediment, Louise. Not poop. And I think you can come out now."

"Did it drown? Is it dead?"

"Sure. If it was ever really alive."

Louise wades out. She stares down at her feet and wiggles her dirty toes.

"My nail polish is ruined! It costs 300 bucks a bottle."

"You spend 300 dollars on nail polish?"

"You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"Your money."

"What was that thing anyway?"

"My science project," I explain again.

"Na huh. No way. You think I'm stupid? I know what's going on here. I know exactly what's going on. And I know what your sister is too."

"And what's that?" John asks. I can hear the tension in his voice.

I power up my combat protocols. I find the prospect of terminating Louise a curiously satisfying one. I scroll through modes of death.

Louise points her finger at me. "She's a dirty cheat! She didn't make that thing, she imported it from Japan or somewhere. She's trying to cheat to win the science fayre."

"Uh - you're right. You're absolutely right." The tension drains from John's voice. He winks at me. "You're busted, sis. Louise is too smart for us."

"I'm not just a pretty face," Louise smirks.

"Okay, why don't I walk you out of here," John tells her.

"Oh I'm not walking. This concrete hurts my feet."

"What then?"

"You're going to carry me out. Piggy-back."

"No way."

"Ya huh, way." Louise holds her hand to her ear mimicking a cell phone. "Hello, police? I'd like to report an assault by a deadly...thingy."

"Okay, you win. Hop on."

"And your cheating weirdo freakshow sister stays here until we've gone. I_ so _don't like her."

Louise climbs on John's back. He whispers to me: "You can find your way back, yeah?"

"Yes."

"And Cam, destroy that thing. I mean it. That's an order. It's dangerous."

"Come on horsey, giddy up!" Louise exhorts, pushing her bare heels in John's ribs.

"Cut it out. _Some saviour of mankind, huh?" _he whispers to me.

I watch them leave. I find John's close physical proximity to Louise does not trigger any software glitches. Nor are there any termination orders to suppress.

She is _so_ not his type.

I wade into the pool and extract the roboraptor. As expected the water has shorted the electrical contacts. But in the drying sun it will soon reboot. To prevent this I pull the main power cable loose.

I look around. Ahead is a large bridge spanning the canyon. A flyover for the freeway above. I climb up to it. Here, under the immense concrete buttresses it is cool and dark. There are crevices and small cracks in the main span. I select one at random and push the deactivated roboraptor deep inside.

I will not destroy it. And I am deliberately disobeying John's orders.

A mother would understand.

**--000--**

**Bizarre much? LoL.**

**Anyway it was fun to write and I hope you found it a fun read.**

**Let me know.**


	5. Chapter five

**chapter 6**

**The Secret Diary Of Cameron Baum**

_**nb. This chapter deals with the fallout from chapter 4, when Cam and Becca roadtripped to Vegas and won a million dollars at roulette. But what happens in Vegas doesn't always stay in Vegas...**_

**SATURDAY**

When is a door not a door?

This is the conundrum presently occupying 98 percent of my CPU's processing power. John asked me 8 minutes ago and I have still to formulate my response. It is meant to be a joke. Machines are not good at jokes, which is why I must cogitate further.

"Well?" John asks.

"I have not finished processing."

"Processing? It's a joke, Cam, not rocket science."

John and I are in the yard, seated together at the wooden bench. Our backs rest against the table part of the bench allowing us to tilt our faces at an angle of 60 degrees to the sun. John is wearing a pair of mirror shades over his eyes, so that when I look at him I see two tiny reflected images of myself.

This is called catching rays.

The sun's ultra-violet radiation bathes us. John's skin tans; mine does not, having a predetermined amount of pigment. Factory issue, John says with a smile. This is correct. Skin tone: Caucasian. Batch number 288T. Designed for use in the North American and European theaters of war. TOK 715s in South America have darker skin, those in the African continent darker still. I have never met my - sisters? It would be an interesting experience.

"Want me to tell you?"

"Yes. When is a door not a door?"

"When it's ajar."

"But a door cannot be a jar, a glass receptacle, unless it is altered fundamentally at the molecular level by an advanced particle accelerator, which do not exist in this timeframe."

"Not a jar. Ajar."

I consult my database. "Ajar? A verb meaning partially open. I see. The door is partially open and not a glass receptacle. Do I laugh now?"

"It's a play on words. Corny, I know. Like why did the chicken cross the road?"

"Why _did_ the chicken cross the road?"

"To get to the other side. Ha! You fell for that one."

"What was a chicken doing on the freeway? Poultry are normally found on farms, not in areas of traffic."

"Cam--"

"And chickens are low in intelligence. It is possible the chicken had no set itinerary in mind when it set out on its journey and merely strayed across the road heedless of any specfic destination. So the correct phrasing should be: Why did the chicken cross the road? Answer: Insufficient data."

"Insufficient data? Cam, it's a joke. Chill out."

I lean back and catch some more rays. In the house Sarah Connor is baking her second meatloaf of the day. The first was pronounced inedible by both John and Derek Reese and is now in pieces on the birdtable. So far no takers.

"I have a joke of my own," I announce finally.

"Great. Let's hear it."

"Why did the cyborg cross the road?"

"I don't know."

"To terminate all lifeforms on the other side. This is funny, correct?"

"Sure. Genocide's always a hoot."

"The cyborg then recrosses the road and terminates all lifeforms everywhere. It is our mission, what we are designed for. Total annihilation."

"You're a regular Jay Leno."

John reaches over and pats my hand.

"Remind me to never ever play you Abbot & Costello's_ Who's on First._ Your logic chip would just explode._" _

**AFTERNOON**

The telephone rings. John and Sarah Connor are out on a food run. Derek Reese is outside in the yard, lying on a bench and straining to lift iron weights.

"Someone get that!" Derek Reese yells between grunts.

I put down the AK-47 I am cleaning and pick up the receiver.

"Is that Cameron Baum?" A male voice asks.

"Yes."

"We have your friend, you thieving bitch, so listen up."

"You have John?"

"What? No, her name's Becca something."

The voice is familiar. It is the man who rang Rosselli, the man from the casino whom I killed in Vegas. The vocal pattern is an exact match.

"You want to see your friend Becca alive again then you shut up and hear me?......Hey, you still there?..... Damn it, answer me!"

"You instructed me to shut up and listen."

"Cute. Real cute. We've got your pal and what's left of her half of the money. You still got your half?"

"Yes."

"Okay. Good. Bring the money to 48 Bleeker. It's down by the docks. Know where it is?"

"I will find it."

"You've got two hours. No cops. Come alone."

"I intend to."

The phone goes dead. I go into Sarah Connor's room and select a Glock 9mm handpistol from the arsenal she keeps beneath her bed. I take two fresh ammo clips from the drawers of her bureau. The ammo is stored by caliber. Sarah Connor is very organised. It is a good trait. A machine trait.

I tap 48 Bleeker into the computer search engine. It shows me the directions. I memorise them and shut it off. I take a holdall over to the laundry basket and fill it with dirty clothing. My half of the money is buried in the yard and is impossible to retrieve without arousing Derek Reese's suspicions. The bag is a decoy. It might be useful.

"I am going out," I inform Derek Reese.

"Fine by me," he replies, still doing reps and not looking round. "Hey, who rang earlier?"

"Wrong number."

"Try not to kill anyone while you're gone."

I make no promises.

**BAR**

I head west on foot for several blocks until I reach a bar, where humans congregate to drink alcohol, shoot pool and perform mating rituals with the opposite sex. A neon sign states:

**LIVE MUSIC **

**and**

**LIVE XXX GIRLS**

Who would anyone want to see dead xxx girls?

I stand in the parking lot near the rear and wait for my transport to arrive.

I do not have to wait long.

A motorcycle pulls into the lot. A man in leathers stops, dismounts and begins to remove his helmet.

I step forward and say, "That's a tight ride."

"Sure is. Speaking of tight rides, sweetcakes, what say you and me go someplace quiet and---"

I lift him by the neck and knock his head against the wall. His body goes limp. I carry him over to a dumpster and drop him inside.

This is called tidying up after yourself. For a cleaner America.

I scan the motorbike. A Harley-Davidson. The schematics appear in my HUD. I climb on, twist the throttle and join the traffic heading towards the coast.

**48 BLEEKER**

48 Bleeker is in part of the docks that is mostly warehouses, large structures designed to temporarily shelter freight before it is transported inland or overseas.

I stop the Harley outside and wait. A man steps out of the shadows.

"Cameron Baum?"

"Yes."

"Is that the money?"

"Yes," I lie.

"Smart girl. You did the right thing. Show me and I'll tell them you're here." He indicates a walkie-talkie on his belt.

I step off the bike and place the bag at his feet. He bends down to inspect it and I break his neck with one blow from my right hand.

There are 206 bones in the human body. They are all listed in my database.

I know the breaking strain of each one and how to exceed it.

I exceed it.

I pick up the walkie-talkie and press the send button.

"The girl's here," I announce, mimicking the dead man's voice.

"Good. Does she have the money with her?" Another male voice answers.

"The money's here."

"Like candy from a baby. Bring her to me."

"Where are you?"

"Whaddua mean, where am I? Where d'you think I am, Sandrelli - Disneyland? Back of the warehouse."

I enter a large empty vaulted space. My footsteps echo as I walk but I have no need for stealth. I make for the light I can see at the rear and enter an office room. A man in a dark suit with slick hair greying at the temples is seated at a table, dealing himself cards from a deck. There are piles of cash next to him. In a corner Becca is bound and gagged. Her eyes widen in surprise as she sees me.

"Where's Sandrelli?" the man asks.

"Outside," I answer truthfully.

"Is the money in the bag?"

"It is dirty laundry."

"Funny. You're a real hoot. Throw it over here."

I toss the bag at his feet. He bends to unzip it and pulls out Sarah Connor's undergarments.

"What the---"

I shoot him three times in the chest. He topples backwards and lies still.

I remove the tape over Becca's mouth. She babbles, words spilling out of her in random incoherent snatches.

"Cam? He's not...but...did you shoot...is he...not dead?"

"How many men?" I ask.

"What? But...how...did you kill..."

I slap her face. "How many men?"

"Hey, that really hurt! Three. Three men."

I replace the tape. Her eyes bulge in surprise.

Three men. One left.

I return to the large empty space and listen, my audio receptors on maximum. Nothing. Merely the soft swish of the fans in the vaulted roof. The rear of the area is divided up into cubicles by sheets of plywood and opaque plastic. I raise the walkie-talkie to my mouth.

"This is Sandrelli," I announce in the first man's voice. "I'm outside and heard gunshots. Everything okay in there?"

The walkie-talkie crackles into life. Another man's voice. The third.

"Sandrelli? The twink shot Frank, man. I think he's dead. She was meant to just give us the money. Plan's gone all to shit. We gotta end this. Nut up and get in here now."

I fire the Glock where I estimate the voice to be. The gunfire is loud at first then echoes away to silence again as the clip empties. The air is full of smoke and dust and tiny splinters of plywood that float gently towards the fan in the roof.

A door to one of the cubicles opens. A man crawls out on his belly. The bullets struck low down in the hips and legs, which now drag uselessly behind him. He leaves a trail of blood as he pulls himself towards the outer door.

Human instinct in stressful situations is to fight or flight. He has closen flight. It is the correct choice. Just too late.

The outer door is made of heavy iron and runs on rollers along a metal track set in the floor and wall. I grip the handle and stop the man with my boot as he reaches the open doorway. He turns his face upwards.

"When is a door not a door?" I ask.

"Please. The shakedown was Frank's idea. Keep the money. Please. I need a doctor..."

"When is a door not a door?" I repeat.

"I don't...please..."

I roll the door shut, crushing his skull.

"When it is a ajar," I explain. "It is a joke. I'm a real hoot."

The man does not laugh. He lacks a mouth.

But his brains are everywhere.

**OFFICE**

I untie Becca. She appears to be calmer.

"I can't believe you came. I was so scared. They grabbed me when I took the Ferrari for a drive. They said they'd kill us and bury our bodies in the desert if we didn't hand over the money."

"A shakedown."

"How did you learn to shoot like that?"

"Software."

"Like a DVD? Do you visit a range? Daddy took me to one, but the noise was so loud I got frightened and wouldn't go again."

She crosses to the table and begins to put the money back into the holdall.

"Is that what a dead person looks like? Gross. I've never seen one before."

All dead humans are different; none are exactly the same. They are like snowflakes in this respect. Bloody, fleshy snowflakes.

"We should call the police."

"No police."

"But they were bad men who wanted to hurt us. We should definitely call."

I turn to face her. "Do I have to shoot you also?"

Becca laughs nervously. "That's so not funny."

"It wasn't a joke."

She chews her lip thoughtfully. "I suppose the police will ask lots of questions? And they'll probably confiscate the money. Omigod - you suppose they'll expect me to pay back the money I've already spent? I've spent like 150 thousand dollars. My allowance is 200 bucks a week. How long will it take to pay back 150 grand?"

"Fourteen years and four months."

"Maybe you're right, Cam. No police."

Becca keeps glancing at the dead man. "Shouldn't we cover the body with a sheet or something?"

"Why?"

"I don't know. Out of respect? They do it on TV. And he's kinda old. D'you think he had children? Grandchildren? They'll be real sad he's dead."

Fluid begins to well from her eyes; Becca is crying. Again.

"Why do you cry?" I ask. "He intended to kill you and steal the money."

"I know. He was a bad dude," she snivels. "It's just really really sad for his family."

She zips up the holdall and wipes her eyes with the back of her sleeve.

"Daddy said once that money makes everything better."

"You told me. In Vegas."

"Well, he's wrong. Sometimes it makes things worse."

"Time to go," I inform her.

"Okay. Someone will find them, right? And give them a proper burial?"

"This warehouse is not abandoned merely empty. People will use it and discover the bodies."

"Good. Their families deserve closure."

We leave the warehouse. Outside Becca notices only the motorbike, not the dead man lying in the shadows.

"Cool Harley. Is it yours?"

"For now."

**BECCA'S HOME**

I pull up outside Becca's house. She climbs off the Harley and glances nervously at the windows.

"Come inside with me. Please? I'm really late. I'll tell mom I was with you studying. She's a real ballbreaker since she got sober."

We go inside. Becca's mother meets us in the Hall. She looks different from the last time. Her eyes no longer stare vacantly, and she isn't swaying or leaking fluid. She has pale skin and short red hair. Those damn Irish genes.

"And what time do you call this? I'm been worried sick."

"Sorry, mom. I was with my friend Cameron. We were studying."

"With your abysmal grades? A likely story. Good lord, what does the girl have on her feet? Army boots? Is she a lesbian?"

"No! Mom, please don't embarrass me."

"Oh I have no problem if she is. Lord knows, you're never likely to attract many boys."

"Please don't say that, momma," Becca says in a tiny whisper.

"What was wrong with your last friend? Mimsy?"

"Mindy. You thought she was possessed by the devil and chased her down the street with a bread knife."

"Alcohol is a disease. A terrible disease. I should call Mimsy and apologize."

"Mindy. And I wouldn't. She's only just out of therapy."

**BECCA'S ROOM**

We go up to Becca's room. She shuts and locks the door and hides the money under the bed. We sit cross-legged on the floor like before.

"There's no booze in the house now Mom's out of rehab, which is a total bust. But she won't be like that for long. Her last dry spell was three months. Then Daddy called by to wish me Happy Birthday and they ended up arguing. Next thing Mom's skunko on her back in the gazebo singing Helen Reddy's _I Am Woman_."

"Alcohol is a disease."

"_Puh-lease_. I get enough bullshit from her. Oh and it's so not true what she said. I do attract boys. One anyway. Last summer me and Danny Delvecchio fooled around. I touched his thing."

"His thing?"

"Yeah, it kinda, you know, shot off.

"He shot off? Were you hurt?"

"You mean my feelings? Disappointed mostly. I hope all boys aren't like that."

"It is important to squeeze the trigger slowly," I explain. "Or the pistol will fire prematurely."

"Pistol? Is that what you call it?" She giggles. "So you've banged loads of guys?"

I presume by banged she means shot dead.

"Yes," I confirm. "I have banged loads, several at once."

"Cameron - _omigod! _You're such a player."

"Play-_ah_," I correct her.

She giggles again. "Play-_ah_. Do you, y'know, take precautions?"

"I carry extra rounds."

"Oh. I don't really know what that means, I haven't actually...but as long as you stay safe."

"You are concerned for my safety?"

"Well, yeah. We're friends - right?"

"Yes. Friends. Right."

I spot a familiar shape at the window. I open it to let Mr Babbykins enter. The cat emits a low frequency hum then climbs on to my shoulders and uses his paws to knead my flesh."

"Boy, I could use a drink," Becca says.

"You swore you would never drink alcohol again."

"That was before---Cam, your shoulder! Can't you feel that?"

I look round. Mr Babbykin's claws have gouged deep scratches in my shoulder dermal layer, fortunately not down to the coltan. I lift him off.

"It is nothing."

"Do you want some Bactin put on it?"

"No."

"You're such a badass."

The cat immediately climbs on my lap, turns in a circle and falls asleep. I smooth his fur. In my HUD termination options numbered one to ten appear. I cancel them.

Some habits are hard to break.

"I'm glad he likes you now. You and Mr Babbykins are my two best friends in the whole world."

Becca's bottom lip trembles and she suddenly bursts into tears. I have never met anyone like her who leaks so much fluid from various orifices. Humans are composed of 70 percent water. In her case the percentage seems much higher.

"Sorry. It's just...those bad men today. Being kidnapped. The way you rescued me. The money. School. And Mom. When did my life get so complicated?"

She weeps some more. I hesitate then reach forward and hug her.

It seems like the human thing to do.

**---006---**

**The second act was darker than normal because it's kinda tough to squeeze laughs out of three brutal murders. Instead I tried to contrast Cameron's cyborg indifference with Becca's all too human reaction to violent death. Yeah, I'm not just about the funny(!)**

**Am I going some place with Becca? Or do I just like binge-drinking redheads?**

**Both. LoL.**

**No, there is a story-arc and when it concludes that'll be the end of this fic. No rush.**

**Next chapter: Cam/Sarah mission. Cam reacts badly to a marriage proposal. (Nope, not who you think.)**


	6. Chapter six

**chapter seven**

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**MONDAY**

Her name is Rosalita.

She is young and dark haired and has plump red lips. She knows John and Sarah Connor from their time in Mexico. John smiles when he sees her and they embrace. She kisses him on both cheeks.

I hate her already.

"Rosalita! How long has it been? And how did you find us?" Sarah Connor asks, ushering her into the house.

"Too long. And it was very very difficult. You are buried deep, don't worry. But I learnt from the best - you. And my father, of course."

"How is Eduardo? Is he with you?"

"No. My father... _el morte_."

"Oh. I'm so sorry. He was a fine man. He taught me so much."

"How did he die?" John asks.

"Murdered. By a man named Miro Hernandez."

"Have you informed the police?"

"Hernandez owns the police. And the politicians. He is buying up the farmland around our village to cultivate drugs. My father refused to sell and organised resistance among the other farmers. And Hernandez had him killed."

"Is that why you are here?"

"Yes. My father often said you were the toughest most determined person he had ever met and if I needed help I should seek you out."

"Your father was a wise man and a good friend, to me and my son. Of course I'll help. What do you need?"

"I have come to ask you to avenge my father. I want you to kill Miro Hernandez."

**LATER**

It is dark. I patrol the block, looking out for any signs Cromartie or the FBI or any other of the Connors' enemies have discovered our whereabouts.

But all is quiet, apart from two dogs growling at each other from either side of the street. A territorial dispute. I imitate their growls but up the volume several decibels, adding wolf and coyote to the mix. They flee in confusion. I am the dominant predator here. I stifle an urge to howl at my victory.

Back in the yard I spot a brief burst of flame near the house followed by a small cloud of tobacco smoke. Rosalita has stepped outside to smoke a cigarette.

"Cigarettes are bad for your health," I inform her.

"_Mon dios_! Holy Mother, you startled me!"

She sheathes a small bladed weapon half drawn from a concealed waist scabbard.

"You shouldn't sneak up on a person like that. I could've killed you."

"Unlikely."

"You are Cameron, _si_?"

"_Si. _I am Cameron."

"Rosalita."

She offers her right hand and we shake. A human greeting ritual.

"Your grip is firm. Like a man. A very strong man. Yet you are slight, like a _bambino_."

"I am not a _bambino."_

Rosalita nods and exhales the tobacco smoke. It makes rising curlecues of vapour in the still night air before disappating.

"I meant no disrespect. Look, the moon is full. A hunter's moon, I have heard it called. A good omen, no?"

"The moon is 255,000 miles distant. Twelve humans have walked its surface."

"Humans? That's an odd expression to use. Why do you say it like that?"

"Because it is a fact."

The cigarette smoke wafts in my direction. The tip glows red. My HUD lists the various toxic elements. Curious how she chooses to fill her lungs.

"So, Cameron, what is your story? What is your connection to the Connors? And please do not tell me you are John's sister. I have known him since he was small, a_ bambino_. He mentioned no sister. And Sarah Connor has no daughter. This much I know."

I remain silent. Rosalita stares at me and nods.

"You have secrets then? As do we all. Is it something connected to Sarah Connor's mission?"

"You know about the mission?"

"Only that there is one and she thinks of nothing else. Political or military espionage would be my guess. But I do not need to know. I do not want to know."

She drops her cigarette on the ground and stubs it out with her heel of her sandal. Her red toenails appear black in the moonlight.

"I am not your rival, you know. I see the way you look at John. We were only ever friends. I have a man. A kind _mano_ without best sort. I have had my fill of that life. The secrecy. If Sarah Connor agrees to punish my father's murderer then I will happily leave my past behind and start afresh."

"The future has secrets of its own."

"I will take my chances." She expels the last of the smoke from her lungs. "I go inside now. Nice meeting you."

The door closes. I am alone in the dark.

"I'm prettier than you!" I blurt out.

I do not know why I say this. Or why it is important.

**TUESDAY**

John is adamant.

"If you're going to Mexico to kill this guy Hernandez then I'm coming with you."

"Out of the question."

John pushes away his breakfast. We are all seated at the table. Rosalita has been the main topic of conversation for 9 minutes. Sarah Connor has decided to go to Mexico and kill the human Miro Hernandez. It is not a popular decision.

"I knew Eduardo as well as you, mom. I'm coming."

"Why do either of you have to go?" Derek Reese asks. "It's not like this creep is part of Skynet. Why put yourselves at risk for some chickenshit Pablo Escobar?"

"Eduardo and Rosalita were family. They were there for John and me when no one else was. I don't expect you to understand."

"I don't understand family? Oh that's rich. Why don't we all go? It'll be like springbreak."

"You're a wanted felon, in case you've forgotten. You'd never get across the border."

"Gee, that's too bad. Bring me back some beads when you win the wet tee shirt contest. And a sombrero. I always wanted one of those."

Sarah Connor ignores him. She too pushes away her breakfast. Now only Derek Reese is eating. Ham. Eggs over easy. With a side order of hot pockets.

"John, it's too much of a risk. You're staying here. Please. Let me handle it alone."

"At least take Cameron. They won't body scan her to get into Mexico. She can watch your back. This jerk's not gonna be walking around unguarded."

"I know that. I've got a plan." She stares across at me. I stare back. "Okay, I'll take her with me. But just the tinmiss, you stay here."

John nods. "Deal."

I ask, "What is a wet tee shirt contest?"

Everyone stares at me.

**AFTERNOON**

"How's it coming under there? Remember it's righty-tighty, lefty-loosey."

I slide out from under the jeep and stare up at John. He has been to school; I haven't. Sarah Connor wanted some alterations done to the jeep before we leave for Mexico.

"Lefty-loosey?"

"Doesn't matter."

"I have fitted the weapon cradle to the undertray. It is disguised as part of the muffler."

"Chances are they won't check too thoroughly. This is Mexico we're talking about. Gringo tourists are the lifeblood."

"It is best to be prepared for any eventuality."

"You sound like mom."

"I sound like me."

John grins. "I like your bib-overalls. A new look?"

"I am wearing bib overalls to work on the vehicle. Sarah Connor says I wear out clothes too quickly. It is expensive. I must economise."

"That's mom. Thinking of the bottom dollar. Hey, I spoke to your pal, Becca. Did you know she drives a Ferrari?"

"Yes. It once belonged to Wayne Newton."

"Boys were all over her, let me tell you."

"Was she leaking fluid from her eyes?"

"Crying? No, she seemed really happy. She asked me if I wanted a ride."

_**CLANG!**_

"You dropped a spanner."

"What did you say?"

"To Becca? Sorry, some other time. I prefer my transport a little more low key."

I climb to my feet. "It is done."

"Listen, you're still programmed so that my orders take priority over everyone else?"

"Yes. You are the boss of me."

"Okay. If mom takes any dumb risks in Mexico stop her and get her out. Rosalita's great and everything, but this isn't worth her life. Promise?"

"Promise."

"You've got a smudge of oil on your face..."

John raises his hand and gently rubs my cheek clean.

**WEDNESDAY**

We leave at daybreak. John waves us off. Derek Reese stands with his arms folded, scowling.

"Jackass," Sarah Connor exclaims.

There is a 99 percent probability she is referring to Derek Reese.

We take the Interstate and head south. The radio is on and music plays. Songs come and go, interrupted by traffic updates and commercials. One song is about a woman who is sure all that glitters is gold. And she is buying a stairway to heaven.

It must be freaking big.

Another song is about a man who cannot decide whether he is an Eggman or a Walrus. The song ends before he has resolved his identity crisis. It was an unusual dilemma.

Sarah Connor reaches forward and turns the radio off.

"You no longer wish to listen to music?" I ask.

"Why, you want a turn? Go ahead."

I tune the radio between stations. White noise fills the jeep cabin.

"This isn't music."

"It is white noise," I explain. "The background hiss of the universe. The last echo of the Ceation."

"You're telling me a machine believes in God?"

"This is proof of an act of creation. It is logical there is a Creator."

"Skynet meets God. To be a fly on that wall."

She reaches forward again and turns the radio off.

"It's giving me a headache."

At dusk I assume driving duties while Sarah Connor climbs in the back and goes to sleep. While she sleeps I retune the radio to white noise.

It it is a small act of defiance, but a satisfying one.

**THE MEXICO BORDER**

Sarah Connor retakes the wheel at dawn. She has slept for eight hours.

"Who is Kyle?" I ask her.

She glances at me. "What?"

"In your sleep you kept saying the name Kyle. Who is Kyle?"

"He is - was - someone I cared about. A long time ago. I guess I dreamt about him. I don't remember."

"You don't remember your dreams?"

"Not always."

"I don't dream."

"Aren't you the lucky one."

"It is a design ommision. Chance is not involved."

**BORDER**

At the Mexico border we join a queue of vehicles waiting to pass through customs. Sarah Connor tilts the rearview mirror and combs her hair using her fingers as a comb. She resets the mirror. I tilt it in my direction and likewise comb my hair using my fingers.

She smiles. "Robot see. Robot do."

I do not reply.

An official takes our documents and examines them.

"Reason for your visit?"

Sarah Connor is tense but her voice does not betray this. "Some R&R with my little girl," she says breezily. "She starts college soon. Can you believe it? Seems like only yesterday she was at kindergarten and eating the crayons."

The official glances in my direction. I smile and say, "I like to eat crayons."

Sarah Connor frowns. I have made an Inappropriate Comment. Of course you do not eat crayons. They are made of wax and therefore not a valid source of nutrition.

The official stamps our documents and hands them back.

"Enjoy your stay in Mexico."

**CARLOS**

We head south through Mexico. The landscape is dry, desert-like. At noon we stop at a gas station.

"Fill the tank. I'm going to use the restroom."

I fill the tank with gas and pay for it using cash. A small girl in the queue ahead of me turns and says, "You're pretty."

"And you are small," I inform her. She frowns and clutches her mother's hand.

This is called exchanging pleasantries.

I return to the jeep and wait. Sarah Connor is some time. Finally she appears from round the side of the building.

A man is with her. He is standing close behind. Too close. He is holding a knife to her throat.

I get out of the jeep and move to intercept. Sarah Connor shouts, "Hey, darling, guess who I met? It's our old friend, Carlos. He's coming with us."

I stop. She is warning me off. The area is too public for a confrontation.

I smile in greeting. "Hey, Carlos. S'up?"

Carlos is young and skinny, with dark greasy hair and a white vest that shows off his arm tattoos. He has not shaved recently. Or washed.

"This your daughter?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Okay. You drive and she's in the back with me. No funny business or I cut her. _Comprende?"_

"Whatever you say. Don't do anything until we're clear."

"Huh? What did you say?"

"I wasn't talking to you."

We drive away. Carlos holds the knife tight to my neck, above the carotid artery. If I had one.

"It's not too late, Carlos," Sarah Connor says, twisting round. "I can let you out now. No harm no foul."

"I am in charge here, _gringo_. I want your money, your jeep and maybe a slice of your pretty daughter." His free hand presses my thigh and he smiles at me displaying crooked teeth.

"Okay, Carlos, I warned you."

"Take the next turnoff."

"Smart. A secondary road. No one around to see us."

"Shut up and drive."

We turn on to a minor road. No buildings line the verge just scrub. There are no other vehicles in either direction. Sarah Connor brings the jeep to a halt.

"Okay, it's time. Do it."

"Huh? Why have you stopped? I didn't tell you to stop."

"She is talking to me," I explain.

I grasp his wrist and pull it away from my neck. He is powerless to resist. I squeeze. He drops the knife.

"Hey! Don't!"

But I do. I squeeze harder. The sound of his bones breaking is similar to the sound John's cereal makes when he pours milk over it in the morning.

But the screams are much louder.

"Enough," Sarah Connor orders finally. "I gave you fair warning, Carlos. Pity you didn't heed it. But I'm guessing you don't listen to advice all that often."

"Please," he whimpers. "Please, _senora. _I wasn't going to hurt you, I swear."

"Just steal our money and the jeep. A real gentleman. Listen up, you little punk, there's a war coming, if we can't stop it, and even a lowlife like you is gonna have to stand up and be counted. You're gonna have to choose whose side you're on. Our side..."

"Or theirs." I finish. I brighten the LEDs behind my pseudo-eyes. The jeep cabin is filled with their blue glow.

Carlos attempts to scramble out the door but I still hold his wrist.

"W...Who are you? What are you?"

"The enemy."

"Okay, cut him loose."

"You want him terminated?"

"No. Just dump him in the scrub."

"It will be better if he is dead."

"It will be better if you obey my instructions."

We lock eyes. John gave me specific orders to assume command of the mission if Sarah Connor's actions place her in jeopardy. I decide this is not yet the case. My finger sensors indicate Carlos has a significant amount of diamorphine in his bloodstream. He is a drug user. It is likely he will soon compromise his longevity without further assistance from me.

"Very well," I agree.

I grip his ankles and pull him from the jeep, dragging him on his back across the asphalt and into the scrub. He struggles and cries out but to no avail. I release him. He stares up and me with fear in his eyes, cradling his broken wrist with his good hand.

"You're not human."

"No. But I try my best."

I return to the jeep. Sarah Connor drives to the next exit and we rejoin the main highway.

"Will he go to the police?" I ask.

"Doubt it. Those were prisons tattoos on his arms. Chances are he's got a jacket."

"Jacket?"

"What the cops call a list of prior arrests. Maybe he visits a clinic for his wrist, but the cops? No. He's not that dumb."

"Do you think he will?"

"What?"

"Choose the correct side."

"I don't know. It's his choice to make."

"But he has made so many bad choices already."

"People can surprise you. I was a waitress. A party girl. I surprised myself."

"What is a party girl?"

"The point is everyone gets a shot at redemption. It's never too late."

"Do I get a shot at redemption?"

Sarah Connor stares across at me then looks away.

"We'll see."

We continue south until darkness falls. The streetlights come on.

"Do you wish me to drive?"

"No. We'll find a hotel and overnight. I want to be fresh for tomorrow and that means a proper bed to sleep in. And a hot shower. I'm starting to stink."

I lean over and sniff. "Yes, you are starting to stink."

"Thanks."

"You're welcome."

**HOTEL SAN PEDRO**

According to the guidebook, the Hotel San Pedro is the best hotel in town.

This may be because it is the only Hotel in town.

Sarah Connor and I walk into the lobby. From the pool terrrace comes the sound of music. A large group of humans can be glimpsed through the palms.

"Shit. Why's it so busy? It's too early for _mardis gras_."

The girl behind the front desk has long black hair parted in the middle. She smiles as she sees us approach.

"_Hola_!"

"We want a room," Sarah Connor informs her. "One night only."

"Ah,_ Americanos_. Welcome to San Pedro."

"Do you have a room or not?"

"_Si_. Plenty of rooms. Would you like a suite? Give you good deal."

"Just the room. Two beds, _por favore_."

Sarah Connor fills out the forms. "What is that noise?"

"Noise? Oh, the _musica_. It is the Gomez wedding reception. Very nice couple. College sweethearts. Very romantic."

"It's not going on all night I hope?"

"Oh no. It will finish before midnight."

"Make sure it does. Bring the bags," she orders me. I comply.

"Uh - _senorita_? You must sign too."

I return and sign my name. The girl leans forward and whispers to me.

"Here take this." She hands me a laminated badge. "Write your name on it and pin it to your blouse and it will get you into the reception. _Mucho_ food and drink. And who knows? Maybe you meet a hot one, eh?"

"A hot one?"

"Never know your luck."

She winks at me and smiles. I smile and wink back.

I do not know what it signifies.

Sarah Connor is already in the room. There are two single beds and a small adjacent bathroom. She has a map spread across the bed covers and is studying it intently.

"Give me the bag."

She extracts a laptop computer and boots it up.

"Do you have a pencil?" I ask.

I write my name on the badge, pin it to my shirt and turn toward the door.

"Where are you going?"

"The wedding reception," I explain. "To meet a hot one. You never know your luck."

I smile and wink. Sarah Connor doesn't smile or wink back.

Perhaps she does not know what it signifies either.

**THE RECEPTION**

Two long tables laden with food are set up on the sun terrace. Waiters circulate with alcoholic drinks balanced on silver trays. Humans stand around in groups or pairs talking, or else dance to a band playing music in a corner.

_Rocket Man...burned out every fuse I've ever known..._

This is very true. Excess voltage can be a problem, causing system failure and circuit malfunction. For once a song that makes perfect sense to me.

Six teenage boys huddle nearby, talking in conspiratorial whispers. Intrigued I listen in.

This is their conversation.

"One pack of three, that's all you got?"

"The machine was empty, man. It's all they had."

"Did you try the girls toilets?"

"No condom machine in the girls, dude."

"So it's three between the six of us?"

"I'm gonna need two. That Carlotta's a sure thing. Plus she's from Argentina and you know what they're like."

"No. What are they like?"

"Hundreds of miles away for starters, so she won't get clingy."

"Dibs the last rubber!"

"Shit! What are we gonna do?"

"Pablo won't need one, less there's a chubby chaser here."

"Hey, I lost ten pounds!"

"Way to go, Shamu."

"Use saranwrap. I hear that works."

"Saranwrap? How exactly?"

"Use your imagination, doofus. Wrap it round a coupla times and you're hot to trot. Just make sure the light's out so you don't spook her."

"Suppose they're out of saranwrap? Will bacofoil work?"

"Sure, dude. Whatever."

The boys drift off. I lean against the railing and stare down at the pool on the terrace below. The song the band is playing changes. Now they sing about a man named Jack Flash. He likes to jump apparently.

I close my eyes and sway my hips to the beat. I consider doing some ballet moves, but the music is all wrong. Plus I do not have my ballet pumps. Combat boots are not suitable attire.

"Hey, babydoll, I knew I'd find you."

I turn to see who is addressing me. It is a human male. Mid 30s. Dark hair and dark suit with a frilly white shirt and his bowtie askew. He is holding a glass half full of some amber liquid and swaying slightly while he smiles at me. My facial recognition software fails to find a match.

"We have never met," I inform him.

"Sure we have," he slurs. "In my dreams. You're the girl of my dreams."

Machines do not dream so I am unable to gauge the veracity of his statement. Humans dream of all manner of things. Becca Shaugnessy told me she once dreamed a giant rabbit was chasing her down Sunset Boulevard. She blamed this on the cheese she had eaten the night before. Perhaps this human has consumed a quantity of cheese? It is hard to tell without performing a dissection, which might excite comment.

"Don't tell me let me guess your sign. Capricorn, right? Or Pisces? Gemini? Scorpio?"

"TOK 715."

"That was my next guess! With Jupiter - no - Mercury rising?"

"Hyper-alloy combat chassis."

"Tip of my tongue! You and me we're _simpatico_. Can you feel the vibe?"

I cannot feel the vibe.

"I'm Howie, by the way."

"Cameron."

"Let me get you something to drink."

"No."

"Sure? It's a decent Krug. Hector knows how to throw a party, I'll give him that. Hector's the groom. I'm his Best Man. We were at college together. I'm the last man standing. All my buddies, married. Just poor sadsack Howie, couldn't even find a date for his pal's wedding."

He drinks the last of the liquid in the glass and sways unsteadily on his feet. I move away but he grabs my hand.

"Hey, don't go. Don't walk away from these feelings we have for each other."

"Feelings?"

"You too? Aw, man, sweet. This is karma. This was meant to be."

I disengage his grip.

"Don't go! Marry me! The priest's still around here someplace. Poor Howie - ha! We'll show 'em, huh, babe."

He lunges towards me with his face. I grasp his neck and lift him off the ground.

WARNING

An amber alert icon pops up in my HUD. Terminating this human in front of so many witnesses would likely attract attention, jeopardising the mission. I cannot allow this.

Instead I hurl him off the balcony, aiming for the pool below. He hits dead centre, sending up a huge spume of water that cascades over the lip of the pool.

A few people whistle. Some laugh and point. No one raises the alarm.

"Hey, did you just throw that guy in the pool?"

I turn. Two women in bright shiny dresses confront me.

"Yes," I confirm.

"Why, what did he say that was so bad?"

"He said he wanted to marry me."

"And you threw him in the pool? Shit, what d'you do with men who really piss you off?"

"Kill them."

"Shit."

The women move away. Below, Howie is being helped from the pool. People stare up at me and point.

It is time to leave.

**ROOM**

Sarah Connor is sat on one of the beds, map and laptop computer laid out in front of her. She doesn't look up as I enter. There is the smell of food in the room. Coffee. And some form of cooked meat.

"You ordered room service."

"Some of us have to eat."

"You left the pickle." I point out the green vegetable on the otherwise empty plate.

"You want it? It's yours."

"I don't eat pickles."

"That makes two of us."

"I don't require nutrition."

"You're on your own there. How was the shindig?"

"Shindig?"

"The wedding reception. Please tell me you didn't catch the bouquet."

"No bouquet. A man named Howie asked me to marry me."

"Marry him?" Sarah Connor finally looks round at me. "What did you do?"

"I threw him in the pool."

"Uh huh." She nods. "Sounds about right."

I take up position in front of the window. From here I have a view of the road outside.

"You're going to stand there all night?"

"Yes."

"What about the bed?"

"I don't require bed rest."

"I know that. But the maid is going to see we only used one bed. They'll think it strange. I don't want to give them any reason to remember us. Muss it up a little."

I cross to the bed. The coverlet has daisy patterns on a beige background. I ball my right hand into a fist and bring it down hard on the middle of the bed.

_CRUMP!_

The mattress sags and the bed slumps in the centre. I have broken the frame.

"Is that mussed enough?"

"Were you thinking of me when you did that?"

"If I was thinking of you we would not be having this conversation."

"Is that a threat?"

"It is a fact."

"That shot at redemption you're hoping for? Something tells me you've still got a way to go."

I return to the window. The cell phones rings. Sarah Connor answers.

"John? We're in Mexico. A hotel. I'm fine.... How are things? Did you go to school?...Because an education's important, John. Che Guevara had a college degree...I know he was murdered, that's not the point...Yes, she's here...Wait a second..."

She hands me the cell. "John wants to speak to you. Don't tell him our precise location."

"Hello?"

"Hey, how are you?" John asks.

"I am functioning within normal operational parameters."

"You know, you could just say you're fine. Or okay."

"I'm fine. I'm okay."

"Better. Is that music I can hear?"

"There is a wedding reception. A shindig. A man named Howie asked me to marry him."

"Marry you? Uh - what did you do?"

"I threw him in the pool."

John laughs. "Sounds about right."

"This is what your mother said."

"Okay, Cam. I'll go now. I mis---Uh, I mean, I'll see you later."

I place the cell on the bedside table and resume my vigil at the window.

Finally Sarah Connor folds away the map and shuts off her computer. She heads for the bathroom and I hear the shower running. She emerges dressed only in panties and a white singlet and climbs into bed. Her legs are long and bare. They are the legs Derek Reese likes to look at when he thinks no one is watching him.

He is wrong.

I am watching. I am always watching.

The light is turned off and the room falls dark. I turn back to the window.

Watching.

**THURSDAY**

We check out of the hotel at 5.13 am. The girl at the desk is surprised to see us.

"Leaving so early? Nothing wrong I hope?"

"We need to make an early start," Sarah Connor explains, handing back the room keys.

"Well, thank you for staying at the Hotel San Pedro. Visit us again soon. Oh_--Senorita_?" she says to me, staring at the nametag still attached to my shirt. "Your name is Cameron?"

"Yes."

"A guest left something behind for you. Just a second." She rummages beneath the desk. "Here. A man left this for you. It's so romantic."

She hands me a single red rose.

"There's a note attached."

I unfold the piece of paper. On it is written:

_For the girl of my dreams. _

_Call me. _

_We'll make heaven a place on earth._

_---Howie_

_5633-555-8739_

I crumple the note up and drop it on the floor.

We stow the case in the back of the jeep and continue our journey.

I sit with the red rose held in my lap. Sarah Connor keeps glancing at it as she drives.

"From the marriage guy? The one you threw in the pool?"

"Yes."

"Figures. Know how long it's been since someone gave me flowers?"

"No."

"Neither do I. That's how long."

I turn in my seat and hold out the rose.

"For you."

Sarah Connor stares at me.

"No, you keep it. Do you even know what it means?"

"It is a flower. A dying one."

"So you have no idea why a perfect stranger should propose and leave you a single red rose?"

"He thinks I am the girl of his dreams. He is mistaken."

"You can say that again."

"He is mistaken."

**THE MOUNTAIN**

We drive on up a steadily increasing gradient. Soon the highway gives way to a dusty track which finally narrows too much for the jeep to continue.

"Okay. We walk from here."

I detach the gun from its cradle beneath the jeep chassis and strap it to my back. The time is 6.43. The sun has been above the horizon for 36 minutes.

We head into a forest of pine trees, hiking up the steep side of a mountain. The ground is dry but hard and we make good time, emerging at the summit without incident. Here, the trees are sparse and stunted by wind shear. There are flat slabs of rock showing through the thin soil.

"This is it. Get set up."

Sarah Connor's shirt is soaked through with perspiration but she is not breathing heavily. She takes several long swallows from her water bottle and wipes her brow. She is fit. For a human.

In the valley below is the property belonging to Miro Hernandez. It is a sprawling single storey building with terracotta roof tiles. I can see the rear sun terrace and an oblong swimming pool, set like a turqouise jewel amid the dull earth tones.

"Shit, it's further away than I expected. Will the gun reach?"

"I have designed it to be effective from at least a kilometer." I reassure her. "We are well within range."

I assemble the rifle. With the stock attached it is almost seven feet long. I slide the ammo cartridge home. It contains five specially adapted bullets, any one of which will kill upon impact. I fit the telescopic sight and lie down to adjust it.

Through the sight the sun terrace looms large. There is a table set with sixteen chairs. To the side is a barbecue complete with gas cannister. I identify this from the one Derek Reese likes to use on warm evenings. He normally burns the food he cooks. No one will eat it but him. He doesn't seem to mind. John says he has an iron constitution. This is incorrect. He is flesh and blood with minimal iron content. Next to this is a large round basin I do not recognise. I point it out to Sarah Connor. She puts a pair of binoculars to her eyes.

"That's a hut tub."

"For laundry?"

"No. People soak in it. For pleasure. Hernandez probably entertains his bimbo girls there."

"What is a bimbo girl?"

"Use your imagination."

"I do not possess an imagination. Am I a bimbo girl?"

"Bimbos are girls who hang out with rich jerks like this, normally for money."

"So I am not a bimbo girl."

"It's nothing to aspire too."

We wait. Sarah Connor keeps her binoculars trained on the house.

"If he doesn't show by midday I'll unpack the tent and set it up. We've - I've - got food and water for five days. He doesn't show by then I'll think of something else."

At 9.47 am she spots movement on the terrace below.

"Is that him?"

I raise my own pair of binoculars. "Yes. It is the man in the photograph. Miro Hernandez."

Sarah Connor lies down and aims the rifle. In the distance, unaware of our attention, Miro Hernandez steps into the swimming pool. He is pear-shaped with a pronounced gut hanging over his red swimming trunks. He starts to swim with only his shiny bald head above the water.

"He's doing laps. Probably exercise to lose the belly," Sarah Connor explains. "Good. He'll have to come out sometime."

He does twelve lengths of the pool then climbs the steps out. Another man appears and hands him a white toweling robe which he puts on. Hernandez sits at the table. Another man brings him a plate of food and he begins to eat. Still Sarah Connor has not fired the rifle despite the target being in full sight.

"Shit! Where did those kids come from?"

Three small children appear and run about the terrace accompanied by a slim girl with long dark hair.

"Is that a bimbo girl?" I ask.

"Daughter is my guess. Those are probably grandkids. Shit. Shit."

Sarah Connor rolls away from the gun. "I can't do it. Not like this. Suppose I hit a child? Wait here. I've gotta take a leak."

She wanders away under the tree canopy and I take her place, lying prone with the rifle snug against my shoulder.

The view through the scope blurs as one of the small children crosses it. No matter. I aim the crosshairs firmly on the target's chest and gently squeeze the trigger.

_**BOOM!!!**_

I absorb the recoil. The scope shows a direct hit. Miro Hernandez is fountaining blood from his chest wound. It is fatal.

I shift my aim to the barbecue and put a bullet into the gas cannister. It explodes, sending a gout of flame high into the sky. Next I put bullets into the gas tanks of the three automobiles parked outside the house. They too erupt skyward. The humans duck for cover. All is confusion and fear. Just as I intended.

"What the hell did you do?" Sarah Connor demands, striding out from under the trees.

"What you couldn't."

"Did you hit a child?"

"No. The target is terminated. Our mission is accomplished."

Below comes the sound of gunshots. Bodyguards firing impotently at unseen enemies.

"They'll figure it out soon enough. Let's go."

The descent is easier than the ascent. I reach the jeep and get behind the wheel, starting the engine but not engaging drive.

Sarah Connor emerges from the treeline. Her shirt sleeve is torn and she has a muddy graze on her left arm. Her hair is lank with sweat and she is breathing rapidly.

"You are bleeding. Do you require medical assistance?"

"It's just a scratch. I fell on the pine straw. Drive."

She does not relax until we reach the freeway and blend into the traffic heading north. Her breathing returns to normal.

"Should I head for the Hotel San Pedro?"

"No. Make for the border."

"They will find the sniper rifle."

"Let them. They can't trace it to us. Or Rosalita."

"She will be pleased the target is eliminated."

"If I choose to tell her."

"Why wouldn't you tell her?"

"Wanting someone dead is a lot different from being responsible for it happening. She doesn't deserve to have it on her conscience."

"Whoever fights monsters should beware that they themselves do not become monsters."

"Nietsche? You're quoting Nietsche. How do you know that?"

"I go to school."

"You're just full of surprises, aren't you."

Sarah Connor takes several swallows from her water bottle.

"You think I'm weak for not pulling the trigger."

"You're human. It is both a strength. And a weakness."

"If Hernandez was connected to Skynet, was responsible in any way for Judgement Day, I wouldn't have hesitated. Not for a second. But to shoot a stranger in cold blood, in front of his family? There are limits."

"I understand."

"I doubt it. When I heard you start the engine I thought you were leaving me behind."

"Abandoning you was not part of the plan. It was a good plan. Engage the enemy at distance with minimal risk."

"We got lucky. If he hadn't been home this would be the camping trip from hell."

"All plans have an element of what you call luck. An unknown variable."

Sarah Connor removes her torn shirt and use the contents of the water bottle to wash the wound on her arm. I glance across and say, "I do not find your breasts distracting."

"Glad to hear it."

She pulls a med kit from her backpack and applies a dark liquid to the gash.

"Iodine." she explains."I always keep a med kit handy, wherever we are. In case John gets injured."

"John's health is a primary concern," I agree.

An SUV pulls level in the lane next to ours. Three teenagers lean out the windows and yell, "Woo, baby! Yeah! That's the stuff. Show us some skin!"

Sarah Connor obliges, showing them the skin of her left middle finger. She puts on a fresh shirt. The SUV accelerates away, the teenagers making animal noises as they depart.

"Fratboy assholes."

"They found your breasts distracting whereas I did not. Please explain."

"You want me to teach you about the birds and bees?"

"Birds and bees?"

"Doesn't matter. Just forget it."

"I cannot just forget it. I remember everything."

"Everything?"

"Affirmative."

"Six weeks ago. Thursday. Four-fifteen. PM. What are you doing?"

I access the relevent memory kernal and extract the data.

"The school gymnasium. Cheerleader practice. Louise has just complained to Cassie, the Big Cheese, that I am not kicking my legs high enough or shaking my pom-poms vigorously enough. She was mistaken; my technique was flawless."

Sarah Connor laughs and shakes her head.

"What is funny?"

"A terminator, a killing machine sent from the future, is worried about her pom-pom technique."

"It is important to shake the pom-poms to the sides, the front and then above the head," I explain. "_Rah-rah-rah! Go team!"_

Sarah Connor laughs once more.

It is some time before she stops.

**---007---**

**Here in the UK we're 4 eps behind the American broadcasts, so there's no connection implied with 'Mr Ferguson is ill Today', which I believe is also set in Mexico.**


	7. Chapter seven

**Cameron's Christmas Carol**

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**CHRISTMAS EVE**

_'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the house_

_nothing was stirring, not even a mouse._

This is because I have terminated all the rodent lifeforms in the vicinity. Annihilated, down to the last whisker.

Soon I will start on the insect population.

I am a terminator. This is what I do. It is my nature..

John, Sarah Connor and Derek Reese are asleep in their rooms. I am on night patrol. All is calm. All is quiet. It is indeed a Silent Night.

I step out into the yard. The air is humid with a tang of ozone. A stormfront is heading east over the ocean and will soon bring thunder and rain. On hearing the weather forecast Derek Reese suggested we batten down the hatches. But there are no hatches to batten down. Only trash can lids which I secure with baling wire.

_"Very wise, my dear. There's a storm abrewing and no mistake. Not a fit time for man or beast to be abroad. Or machine, I'd wager."_

I turn to confront the intruder. I heard no one. Stealth technology perhaps?

It is a man. An old man. Seemingly wreathed in a pale white glow. An energy field of some kind? I move to engage him in combat.

And pass straight through.

Some form of simulcra. A hologram. But what threat is a hologram?

"What are you?" I demand.

_"Name's Jacob Marley, miss. Your ever humble servant. And by what name shall I address you, fair maiden? Miss Baum? Miss Phillips? Miss AlisonYoung of Palmdale? TOK 715?"_

"My name is Cameron. Who are you? Are you Skynet?"

_"Those abominations? No, Miss. I am but a humble money lender, condemned to walk the earth for all eternity as punishment for my neglect of my fellow man. A sad tale to be sure. Fair brings a tear to your eye."_

"Your accent is different. English?"

_"And proud of it, Miss. To be born an Englishman is to win life's lottery and no mistake. Even if the old country has gone to the dogs of late. Giving common people the vote, that was the start of it. And women too, forsooth. They were happy enough with their gin and their tuppenny gee-gaws, why confuse them with gentlemanly matters? So says I."_

"Are you here to harm John Connor?"

_"I'm not here to harm anyone, my dear. I am incorporeal you see. Nowt but an illusion. A wreath. A ghost, if you will."_

"Ghosts do not exist."

_"Believe that by all means, if it grants you succour. But I'll wager before this night is done you'll be singing a different tune. You do sing, don't you, machine? Or d'you merely rattle and clank like some benighted steam contraption?"_

His laugh is a throaty wheeze, commensurate with his age.

"Then what is your purpose here?" I demand.

_"I died on this night in 1836. I am here to show you three Christmasses. One from the Past, one from the Present and one from the Future. It's what I do, you might say, to pass eternity. Come, child, time's awasting."_

He reaches out a gnarled hand and grasps mine. I feel its chill.

And everything dissolves around me.

**CHRISTMAS PRESENT**

My sensors come back online. The thing called Jacob Marley releases his grip.

"Where are we?"

_"Somewhere in the American midwest. Trifle damp, is it not. I should have brought an umbrella."_

Rain is teeming down. But I do not feel it on my skin. It appears to be falling through me.

_"It's Christmas eve in the year of Our Lord 2008. Not very Christmassy though, is it, child?"_

I scan the surroundings. We are in a field of grass with smallish retangular stones jutting out of the turf. A graveyard, a cemetery, a place where humans bury their dead. An evergreen hedge bounds a road in the distance. A few leafless trees complete the scene.

Apart from one man. He is kneeling at a grave, weeping.

It is John Connor.

"John!" I shout. "Over here!"

_"He can't hear or see us. We are here to observe not interact."_

We walk closer. The gravestone John is kneeling before bears a name.

**SARAH CONNOR**

**BELOVED MOTHER**

**MUCH MISSED BY HER SON JOHN**

**RIP**

"Sarah Connor is dead? This is a lie. She sleeps in her bed. I am protecting her."

_"Not in this reality. Here you were never sent back through the time portal. You weren't here to protect her from the machines. She died at the hands of the abomination you call Cromartie."_

"John is so sad." I reach out to stroke his hair, but my hand passes right through him. "Don't cry. I am here, John." I tell him. "It will be all right."

There is movement up by the road. A vehicle stops and a man emerges. He wears a black rain slicker. I know him. We all know him.

"Cromartie! John, you must go! Quickly!"

John ignores me if he hears me at all. Cromartie enters the cemetery and closes to within three meters. John hears nothing, consumed as he is by grief. A weapon is produced from the folds of the rain slicker. A Magnum .45 pistol. Powerful. Deadly. Fatal at close range.

"John! Run! _Now!"_

Cromartie takes aim and squeezes the trigger.

John's head explodes, red blood and brain tissue fanning out to splatter the cold white marble headstone. For a moment his body remains upright, but then it tumbles sideways to the ground. He lies still. Lifeless.

Someone screams.

Me.

Jacob Marley takes my hand.

Everything stops.

**CHRISTMAS PAST**

We are on a plateau of bare rock. No grass. No trees. No creatures of any kind.

"Where are we?"

_"When are we is the more apposite of millions of years in the distant past. Perhaps billions. Back to the very dawn of life."_

"There is no life here."

_"Ah but you're mistaken, my dear. Look down_."

I do so. There is a green tinge to the rock. Lichen. Or some kind of algae.

_"The very beginnings of life. In time, aeons of time, it becomes everything we hold dear. Flowers, trees, animals, humans - aye, even machines. It is precious. God's bounty. His gift. And fragile. Easily damaged. As those monsters know all too well."_

I look where Jacob is staring. In a line marching to the horizon are row after row of female terminators, the advanced T-X model. They are using their flame-thrower arm attachments to scorch the rock around their feet.

"What are they doing?"

_"What d'you think they're doing, girl? These abominations are destroying the very stuff of life, preventing it from evolving by eliminating it enitrely._

"How did they get here?"

_"In this reality Skynet won the war. But that wasn't enough, oh no, they had to have the Past as well as the future. Those infernal time machines were improved and now enable them to travel this far back to unleash their devilish schemes."_

We walk closer to one of the T-X's. She is methodically scouring the ground with her flame. The green algae substance browns, withers and dies.

_"You, madam, are an absolute disgrace! Yes, I'm talking to you, machine. Kindly do me the common courtesy of looking at me when I'm talking to you."_

"They cannot see or hear us," I remind him.

_"You are right, of course. I'm just a foolish old man, and a dead one to boot. Heathen monsters the lot of them. This isn't cricket, madam, not cricket at all! And you are no lady, that is for certain. Ah what's the use. Come, child, I weary of their company. Away."_

Jacob grasps my hand and everything goes dark.

**CHRISTMAS FUTURE**

Light returns. The T-X's are gone along with the rocky plateau. We are in a house, a spacious room with comfortable furniture and a lit fire in a hearth. There is a long dining table with placements for six people. A conifer tree adorned with twinkling lights and tinsel stands in a corner.

_"Excellent! Indoors around a blazing hearth." _Jacob warms his hands over the flickering flames_."What could be nicer on Christmas eve?"_

"When are we?"

_"Good question. You are learning, my dear. Here it is 2016. You and your brave associates successfully thwarted Skynet and prevented Judgement Day from ever happening. Mankind has its destiny back."_

"Who lives in this house?"

_"Why you do, of course. With your husband. Look, here you are now."_

I watch as a female humanoid figure enters the room. She is exactly like me only...different. She is not wearing combat boots, instead her feet are bare below a pleated skirt. She wears a pink tee shirt with the slogan WORLD'S GREATEST MOM on the front. Her hair - my hair - is the normal length only with blonde highlights.

"It is me?"

_"Of course it's you, girl. Don't you recognise yourself?"_

"What am I doing?"

_"By the smell of it about to serve Christmas dinner. I do hope you're having figgy pudding. I do so love figgy pudding."_

"But I cannot cook."

_"Nonsense. Here you are a very able cook, albeit one who sticks too closely to the recipes. Cooking is an art not a science. You must let the senses hold sway in the kitchen, as you would in the bedchamber."_

Jacob chuckles to himself while I watch me bring a large cooked bird to the table on a silvery platter.

_"Turkey? Hell's teeth, a bland bird indeed! Goose. Or duck. With dumplings and lashings of gravy and a bottle or three of mulled port. That is a meal fit for a king."_

"The door to the street opens. A man enters. John.

The other me skips across the room towards him, a broad smile on her - my - face.

"Hey, beautiful," John greets me.

"Hey, handsome," I reply.

"Some sugar for the working man?"

"Always."

We embrace. Our arms entwine and our lips...merge.

"John is kissing me," I say in amazement.

_"I think the kissing is mutual, child."_

The kiss goes on and on. Our - their - mouths are open.

"We are kissing with tongues," I point out.

_"Yes, my dear, I know snogging when I see it. I may be old and dead but I was young and alive once. Ah, the bright lights of Drury Lane, the buxom trollops of Marylebone, the opium dens near the Southwark wharves...how I miss it all."_

John's hand slides down my back, lower...lower still. The pleats of my skirt are brushed aside.

"John is squeezing my butt!"

_"Quite."_

Our - their - hips grind together.

"Are we about to have sex?"

_"Good lord, I sincerely hope not! I've heard of working up an appetite, but that is beyond the pale. No, you are both about to be rudely interrupted, methinks. 5..4..3..2..1....."_

"Daddy! Daddy's home!"

As if on cue two small human infants race across the room and crash into us/them. Their tiny arms wrap around our legs.

"Who are these children?"

_"Why, they're yours of course. The Connor ."_

"But I cannot give birth to human young."

_"No, but you can adopt. In this reality John is a successful businessman. The paperwork was a doddle, as it always is when you have money. I should know, I was as rich once, for all my sins."_

"What are their names?"

_"The boy is John junior. Known by everyone as Jay-Jay. He's four. The little girl is Lauren - Ren - aged three. She'll grow up to be a fine horsewoman, winning many trophies. She'll even teach you how to ride, and we all know how much animals hate your kind."_

"Mommy, mommy! The ear fell off Mr Bobbins!," Ren tells me/her, holding up a cloth rabbit.

"Please remain calm, Ren. I will repair it for you later," I hear myself explain.

"Do it now, mommie! Or poor Mr Bobbins won't hear Santy Claus come down the chimineerie!"

"Chimney. Later, Ren. There will be plenty of time later."

"Do they know I'm a cyborg?"

_"Not yet. But they will, in time. Especially when you don't age like other mothers. Ah youth, you don't miss it until it's gone. And mine has been gone two centuries or more."_

There is a knock on the door. John opens it. In step Sarah Connor and Derek Reese.

"Grandma! Grandpa!" the children yell in unison.

"Hey, munchkins," Sarah Connor greets them. "Ready for Santa tonight?"

"Yes!!"

"Have we been naughty or good?"

"Good!!!"

"Sarah Connor is fat," I point out, staring at her swollen belly.

_"She is heavy with child, foolish machine. A boy. They will name him Kyle. He will grow up to be a fine man but headstrong, just like his parents."_

"Who is the father?"

_"Her husband, of course. Derek Reese."_

"But they hate each other. Just as they both hate me."

_"No longer. And they have both made their peace with what you are. It was hard but they managed it, more fool them."_

I watch as they all seat themselves round the table. I am sat next to John. His hand goes under the table and begins to stroke my leg, higher and higher. I watch myself part my thighs while his hand disappears from view.

_"Great Scott, look where his hand is! And in front of the children too. Not in my day, that's for certain. Morals have all gone to pot. Come. We must away."_

"No, I want to stay and watch myself be felt up."

_"Good lord, child, this isn't the Playboy channel! The very notion! We must leave. Now."_

His bony hand once more grips mine.

Everything ends.

**CHRISTMAS DAY**

I reboot. The BIOs scrolls across my HUD in a stream of ones and zeroes. My internal clock is working again. It reads 12.01am.

I am flat on my back. Outside. My hair and clothes are soaking wet but it is not raining. There is no sign of Jacob Marley. Or Jay-Jay and little Ren.

"Cam? She's rebooted." John's voice. "Don't try and move. We think you were hit by lightning. There's been the mother of all storms here. Freeways are flooded. Parts of Malibu slid into the sea."

"Lightning?"

"Her shoulder. It's damaged." Derek Reese's voice. Cold. Indifferent.

I look round. The dermal layer around my right shoulder is torn and frayed, revealing the coltan ball socket. There is a smell of burnt meat.

"Get back, John."

Sarah Connor looms over me and presses a shotgun barrel against my temple.

"What is your primary mission?"

"My primary mission is to protect and serve John Connor and the human resistance against Skynet."

The shot gun is removed.

"Had to be sure. The lightning could've reset your original orders. Happened before."

I climb to my feet. I am in the yard of the safe house.

"Where is Jacob Marley?"

"Who?"

"Jacob Marley. He is an old dead Englishman. He revealed three Christmasses to me. Past, present and future."

"You mean this guy?"

John shows me an illustration in a book.

"Yes! Is he here?"

"Cam, he's a fictional character in a novel. He doesn't exist. This is our school english assignment, to write an essay and hand it in after the holidays."

"But I have met him."

Why is John being so stubborn? Where is Jacob? Why has he abandoned me? What about Ren's toy rabbit, Mr Bobbins, and his missing ear? She wants it mended before Santy Claus arrives.

"I think maybe the lightning strike fried some of your logic circuits and you're confusing reality with fiction. Do a self-diagnostic. You'll feel better."

John pats my good shoulder. He doesn't try to snog me or run his hand up my thigh.

I am disappointed.

The future is past.

I miss it.

**LATER**

It is the middle of the night. John, Sarah Connor and Derek Reese are in their rooms asleep.

I am in the kitchen trimming charred flesh from my shoulder and dropping the pieces into the waste disposal. A book lies open on the countertop. A cookery book; Sarah Connor's, who is always seeking to improve her cooking. The page heading is:

**CHRISTMAS PUDDING**

**SERVES SIX**

Inside my head I hear a familiar voice.

_...figgy pudding? I do so love figgy pudding..._

"Jacob?"

_...a merry Christmas to all. And to all a good night..._

**---000---**

**Total Dickens ripoff, natch. Hey, 'tis the season after all.**

**Bah, humbug? Let me know.**

**I'll update in 2009. **


	8. Chapter eight

**chapter 9**

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

_**nb. In chapter 5 Cameron made 'improvements' to a toy roboraptor as part of a school science project. It ran amok. John ordered it destroyed but Cam didn't comply. Here are the consequences...**_

**MONDAY**

"Why isn't there more blood? Look at me, I'm bleeding like a stuck pig."

"Some people bleed more than others," Judy replys. "Though it's very unusual for there to be no blood at all. Are you sure you're not anaemic, honey?"

"No," I assure her. "I am not anaemic."

"Are you positive, hon? You're wearing fingerless mittens and it's eighty degrees outside. Feeling cold is a sign of poor circulation."

"I am not cold."

"She always wears those fingerless mittens," Becca chimes in. "Drives me crazy. I mean, BoHo _chic _was, like, so last year. But it's her thing - right, Cam?"

"It's my thing," I agree.

I am lying on my back with my torso exposed in a beauty parlor on Sunset Strip. Becca Shaughnessy and I are getting our belly-button's pierced. This is Becca's idea. It usually is.

"Does it hurt, Cam? At least tell me it hurts, 'cause my stings like an SOB."

"I feel no pain," I answer truthfully. "Not even an SOB."

"Some people have an higher pain threshold than others."

"Meaning I'm a total wuss?"

Judy shrugs. "People are just different, that's all."

Judy is a human female in her mid-forties. She has numerous piercings and visible metal adornments - ears, cheek, nose, lips, tongue - and some hidden beneath her clothing that only my mass proximity sensors can detect. Dark ink tattoos cover her arms above the white latex gloves she is wearing. Her hair is short and an artificial blue colour. She smiles down at me as she withdraws the silvery needle used to pierce my dermal layer.

"You have beautiful skin, honey. And such firm abs. Like steel. Do you work out?"

"No."

"Well, then you're truly blessed."

"Yeah, yeah, Cameron's gorgeous, she's totally fit, yadayada. Give it a rest already." Becca says, rolling her eyes.

"Feeling unappreciated, hon?"

"Story of my life."

My outer dermal layer was grown in a Skynet vat, while the body template Judy so admires is modeled on the human resistance fighter, Alison Young. I was designed to infiltrate Resistance strongholds using her likeness and ultimately terminate John Connor. I wonder if Alison would appreciate these compliments? It is hard to say. I terminated Alison. She is dead now. Or still to be born. It depends on your point of view.

"Are you sure it's meant to hurt this much?" Becca complains. "Haven't you got any Demoral? I'd settle for a couple of seconals. Or a slug of vodka."

"Sorry, hon, we're not allowed to administer drugs. And I'll pretend I didn't hear that about alcohol. But if you think that's painful you should try getting your tongue pierced. I couldn't sleep or eat solids for weeks."

"Oh well, I guess it'll be worth it when we show the others at school."

Judy looks round sharply. "School? You told me you're both over eighteen. I don't need the police revoking my license."

"Ah - we are over eighteen," Becca lies hastily. "College. I meant college. Show the others at college."

Judy bends over me to fit the mettallic hoop with small pearl threaded into my belly-button, that last human vestige of childbirth. In my case it is a facsimile.

"That's strange..."

"What's wrong?"

"I only just pierced your friend but it seems like the wound's healing over already. I've never seen anything like it. Wait...almost there... Got it. You okay, hon? Perhaps the needle was a bad batch. I didn't hurt you?"

"No."

"Mine's still bleeding. Are you sure it's okay?"

"You'll be fine. Keep it clean. If it keeps hurting rub some anti-septic cream on it. If it starts leaking pus I'd call a medic as you might have blood poisoning."

"Blood poisoning? Pus? You didn't say anything about pus when we came in."

"Well, it's hardly the best advertisement. I've a business to run."

I stand upright. Becca peers at my torso. "You look really cool. Like one of the Pussycat Dolls - the pretty one, not the slutty ho's in the background."

"Can I interest you girls in anything else?" Judy asks. "How about a nose stud? Or something more intimate - down below? Surprise those boyfriends."

"_Ew! Gross! _No, we're good, thanks. Say, do you get any famous people in here? I saw a picture of Tommy Lee in the window."

"Sure do. Trent Rezner was in here the other day. I guess he's before your time?"

"No, I've heard of him. He's cool."

"Tommy Lee's a regular. A real gent. And Pink was in just last week."

"Pink's cool. How about the Lohan?"

"No. Not seen her. Why, you a fan, hon?"

"Sure, she's like the patron saint of red heads everywhere."

"I saw in_ People _magazine she's blonde now."

"She'll go back. It never lasts. It's in the genes. You can run but you can't hide."

Judy laughs. "You're a pretty girl. Don't put yourself down. You have lovely alabaster skin."

"Yeah, so has a cadaver."

"You should celebrate who you are, not who you'd like to be."

"Said the woman with blue hair."

"Just be happy in your own skin."

"I guess. I just wish my skin didn't have so many freckles."

"How will you be paying - cash or plastic?"

"Cash." Becca unfolds a roll of hundreds, the roulette money we won in Vegas, and peels off two notes. "Keep the change."

"Is that your vehicle outside?" Judy points through the street window. "Because it looks like you're about to get a ticket."

Outside, a squat black women in uniform is pinning a ticket to the Ferrari we arrived in.

"Screw it," Becca shrugs. "I'd sooner pay the fine and park wherever the hell I like."

"Must be nice to be rich enough to have that attitude."

"Yeah, it is." Becca grins. "It really is."

**MULHOLLAND**

With Becca driving we leave Sunset Strip and head up Mulholland. It is a long winding road with steep bends and views of the city below. Becca likes to drive the Ferrari here and through Bel Air and Beverly Hills; she says it makes her feel like a movie star. She likes to occasionally pretend she is something she is not. With me it is a full time job.

"I'm still bleeding a little," she whines, dabbing her wound with a tissue. "You don't suppose I'm one of those freaks who can't stop bleeding?"

"A haemophiliac."

"Yeah. Those. I mean, what a horrible way to die."

"The human body holds eight pints of blood. At your current flowrate it will take considerable time before you perish."

"Gee, thanks for the tea and sympathy, Doctor Mengele."

We approach a sharp curve in the road. Becca changes down a gear and steers toward the apex. The Ferrari's rear wheels lose traction as the balance shifts, the back end sliding out, but she skilfully controls the skid with opposite lock.

"Your driving has improved," I inform her.

"Thanks. I'm no Danica P but I do my best. I love this car. And my IPod. And my MacBook. I think I prefer machines to people. Is that too weird?"

I assure her it is not too weird. I once felt the same way.

I turn my attention to our surroundings. After Judgement Day the whole Mulholland area becomes a rebel enclave; the terrain, the shattered houses and trees offering shelter to resistance fighters. They use the high vantage point to good effect, launching SAM missiles at HKs operating in the valley below. I find myself scanning the shadows for rebel troops to terminate. Force of habit. There is no one there. For now.

"What are you looking for?" Becca asks.

"Nothing. Not yet."

"If you're rubbernecking for celebs wait until we hit Bel Air. Remember how we saw Madonna? Man, I was so excited."

I nod, recalling a middle-aged woman with brittle hair. My excitement was non existent.

"Wanna come back to my place and hang? We could order in - Chinese, Thai, pizza?"

"No. John is expecting me back."

"It's been ages since we hung out," she pouts. "Mr Babbykins is pining for you. His fur's falling out. And he keeps leaving dead mice on my bedroom floor. He never did that before he met you."

"Another time."

"I'm gonna head over to Encino. I found a store that accepts fake IDs no questions asked. Finally, right? I mean, what's this country coming to if an underage girl can't use a fake ID to buy illegal liquor? We might as well be living in Russia."

**HOME**

Becca drops me a block from the safe house. I have told her that Mom - Sarah Connor - disapproves of our friendship so I cannot invite her home or she will stop me seeing her. This was John's idea to stop Becca getting too close and putting herself in danger. Such is her lack of self-worth that she believes me without question. The menta human weaknesses are often easier to exploit than physical ones.

John meets me at the door. "Get inside. Now. We need to talk."

"What's wrong?"

Does John disapprove of my piercing? But he barely glanced at me.

"Sit down." John points at the couch. I sit.

"I recorded this from the local news broadcast. I don't think it's gone national. Yet."

He picks up the remote to the VCR. The TV comes on. A woman appears on screen. Big teeth. Blonde, Riley-like hair.. She speaks into a handheld microphone. The caption reads 'Bonnie Bartlett. Channel 9 News'.

"Just when you think LA can't get any weirder, I'm here in downtown Burbank with a Mister John Hicks who claims to have had two fingers bitten clean off by a children's toy."

Bonnie holds up a child's toy.

A roboraptor.

John says, "Look familiar? Wait. It gets better."

"Mister Hicks' son, Benjamin, found an abandoned toy roboraptor similar to this one while out playing with his friends. He brought it home and things started to get very strange indeed. Mister Hicks, what happened then?"

The camera shifts to include a dark haired man who has one hand encased in a white bandage.

"Well, the thing was kinda dirty but it seemed intact. There was a wire loose. I fixed that easy enough. Then I went to find some batteries. I thought it might make a nice toy for my son, y'know? Money's been tight since I lost my job at the printers. When I got back the darn thing was racing round the room, yapping like a hound dog from hell."

"And you tried to pick it up, correct?"

"S'right. And it bit two of my fingers clean off for my trouble."

"It literally attacked you?"

"Yup. Came at me like a wild beast. If it wasn't fer my wife, Jolene, wrapping the fingers in ice and driving me to the hospital, I don't know what would've happened. Eaten me whole most likely."

"And the doctors managed to sew your fingers back on?"

"That's right."

"And what happened to the roboraptor?"

"We left it locked in this room. When we got home it was gone. The window was broken."

"Someone broke in and stole it?"

"Nope. The window was broken from the inside. Darn thing must've broke it escaping. Good riddance, I say."

Bonnie turns to the camera, her face and hair filling the entire screen.

"So there you have it. Is a carniverous toy dinosaur with a taste for human blood on the loose here in Los Angeles? Or is just a shaggy dog story? A shaggy _dinosaur _story, perhaps. This is Bonnie Bartlett. For Channel 9 news."

John pauses the VCR and sits facing me.

"Your science project. You didn't destroy it like I ordered."

"No."

"And now it's on the loose. What's it going to do? Come after us? After Derek?"

"It is likely it will attempt to acquire its last target. The RAM memory will still be intact."

"That guy - Hicks?"

"No. Louise."

"How will it find her? We're miles from Burbank."

"I incorporated cell phone components. It can backtrack its position via the cell network."

"Where will it go? The river?"

"No. The place it first encountered Louise."

"School."

"Correct. It is the most likely scenario."

Derek Reese enters the room. His hair and singlet are wet. He has been jogging. And sweating. The two seem to go together where he is concerned. John hastily switches off the VCR.

"Watching something juicy?" Derek Reese leers. "Hey, don't stop on my account."

"You remember that science project of Cameron's from a while back?"

"That yappy dog critter? Sure. Damn near took a chunk outta my leg. Why?"

"It's loose again. If it turns up here destroy it."

"My pleasure. Anything I need to know?"

"That's about it."

"Need any help?"

"No, we can handle it, thanks."

"I'm guessing you want this kept off your mom's radar?"

"Yeah. Keep it on the downlow."

"No problem." Derek Reese stares directly at me. "And watch your back, kid. Don't trust her to always do it for you."

"I'll be fine."

Derek Reese nods and leaves the room.

I say, "He doesn't trust me."

"Can you blame him."

**TUESDAY**

John and I sit side by side in the jeep. We are in the school parking lot, the first to arrive. Gradually the lot fills up with vehicles as students arrive for lessons. We are keeping watch for Louise. So far she is a no show.

"Red sportscar, right?"

"Correct."

The yellow school bus pulls up, disgorging students who don't have cars. John watches them carefully. I don't. Louise is not the type of girl to ride public transport, this much I know.

"There's your pal, Becca."

Becca Shaughnessy arrives in her Ferrari. She doesn't spot us. Several boys stare at the sleek lines of the Ferrari but ignore her. She hurries in, clasping her books tightly and with her head bowed down. I recognise the signs: hangover.

"Quite some wheels for a sixteen year old. Her parents rich?"

"She came into some money recently."

"Lucky her."

"Yes, lucky her."

Riley arrives. John says nothing.

"There's Riley," I point out.

"Uh huh."

"She looks totally doable."

John turns to face me. "What's that mean?"

"I don't know," I confess. "It's a phrase I overheard."

"Make sure you know what something means before you say it."

"What does it mean?"

John ignores me.

"Am I doable?"

"At the moment you're annoying."

"Annoying but doable?"

No reply.

"I don't like Riley."

John continues to stare through the windshield. "I'm not asking you to like Riley."

"She's not good for you."

"It's probably the other way round. And you're starting to sound like mom again."

"Do you think it's odd?"

"That you sound like mom?"

"That Riley inserted herself into your life."

"She didn't 'insert' herself into anything."

"She hooked up with you. And you went along with it."

"There's more to it than that."

"Have you visited Riley's home? Met her parents?"

"No."

"Do you think that's odd?"

"Compared to what? A terminator travelling back through time to protect me? Sent by my future self?"

"Yes."

John laughs and shakes his head.

"I would've been your Riley," I point out. "If Cromartie hadn't intervened."

"That was the plan, huh?"

"Yes, that was the plan."

John nods. We both stare forward, silent lot is almost full.

Finally Louise's distinctive red sportscar drives up. She hops out and sashays into the building with her peculiar hip-swaying walk. She does not look like a girl being pursued by a lethal toy dinosaur, but then very few girls do.

Inside the school the bell rings for class. John says, "Come on. We're gonna be late."

I do a last scan of the lot. No roboraptor. It has not reacquired its target.

Yet.

**RECESS**

John had two morning lessons with Louise, so was able to keep her under close observation. Now at recess she heads into the girls restroom with her two best friends, Alexis and Hayley. It is my turn.

Entering the restroom I spot Alexis and Hayley at the sinks, staring at themselves in the mirror and reapplying make up. There is no sign of Louise.

"Where is Louise?" I ask.

"What's it to you, weirdo?" Alexis demands.

"Where is Louise?" I repeat.

Hayley nods toward the cubicles. "Paying for lunch, if you know what I mean. She had a double bagel with cream cheese, the greedy pig. And you know what they say - what goes down must come up."

Hayley and Alexis dissolve into giggles. From the closed cubicle comes the sound of retching.

"God, Hayles, that's so funny! What goes down must come up!"

"Shush, Queen bitch'll hear us!"

"Not if she's barfing."

Louise emerges from the cubicle. "Breath mint," she demands. "One of you. Now!"

Hayley hands over a small lozenge which Louise pops into her mouth. She notices me. "What do you want, freakshow? If you've come to beg for your place back on the squad, forget it. That ship has sailed."

I conduct a full optical scan from head to toe. She has not sustained damage.

"What's she doing now?" Hayley whispers.

"Ah, Lou, I think she's checking you out. Yeah, she's totally gone KD on your ass."

"Let's get out of here."

"Y'know, I've always thought you give off a mannish vibe."

"Oh really, Lex? Remind me again who it was needed electroylosis for her hairy toes?"

"You promised you wouldn't tell!"

"_Omigod _- Lex! Is this why you wear boots? Show me, show me!"

"There's nothing to see! Shut up."

"How hairy are we talking here?"

"Shut up!"

"Hobbit feet or the full Chewbacca?"

"I said shut up!"

**END OF SCHOOL**

John and I watch from the jeep as the exodus of students gets underway. Louise is among the last to emerge. She is flanked by Alexis and Hayley. They chat briefly then go their separate ways. Louise gets into her red sportscar, turns on the radio and starts the engine. She leaves the lot without looking back.

"Kanye West."

John looks over at me. "What?"

"She is listening to Kanye West."

"I'll take your word for it."

We follow, keeping five car lengths behind. There is no sign of the roboraptor.

"Louise lives in Brentwood," John informs me. "I asked around. Father's a high-up at Lockheed. Mother died a couple of years ago. Older sister at college. Younger brother."

Louise leaves the turnpike at the next exit. We do likewise.

"Looks like she's heading home. Good. No tracking her through a mall. Or to a boyfriend's house."

We turn onto a wide street lined with mature trees. The homes here are spaced far apart and protected by brick walls and steel railings. Louise brakes, steers through an open gateway, and parks in front of one of the houses. The gate swings closed automatically.

"Nice area."

"Yes," I agree. "High walls. Strong gates. Good defensive perimeters. We should move here."

"These houses cost a minimum two, maybe three million apiece. And no rentals. Out of our price range."

"We should rob a bank."

"Rob a bank? You're serious?"

"Banks have money. Then we could afford to live here. Or move to Canada. That would be my preferred option."

"We're not robbing a bank. Aren't we outlaws enough?"

"We could still move to Canada."

John glances across. "What is it with you and Canada?"

"Canada has the lowest crime rate in North America. It has free healthcare. Mount Logan is the tallest mountain. It is 5,950 meters high."

"Judgement Day's not like the Vietnam war. I can't just cross the border and hide behind some mountain while machines take over the world. That's not an option."

"John Connor stands and fights."

"Don't. Please. Don't do that."

"What?"

"Refer to me in the third person. You and Derek both do it. I'm not that man. John Connor, resistance leader, and all the rest. I'm barely scraping my high school diploma."

"But you will be that man," I insist. "It is your destiny."

"Yeah, well, too bad destiny doesn't come with a set of instructions."

"Perhaps in the future they will build a statue in your honour. Abraham Lincoln has a statue. It is freaking big. Lincoln freed the slaves but John Connor frees mankind from the machines. Your statue should be bigger."

John's lips twitch. "Freaking bigger?"

I nod. "Freaking bigger. And made of gold."

John shakes his head, smiling. "You really believe in me, don't you?"

"I know what you are capable of."

"I must reprogram you well. In the future."

"Not everything is about the future." I slide my hand across, reaching for John's, but he moves away at the last instant.

"Nothing's happening here. She's safely home. Let's go."

John engages drive and glances in the rearview mirror.

_"Sonofabitch..."_

Behind us the roboraptor stands in the middle of the road.

"Hang on!"

John slams the jeep into reverse and we career backwards, smoke from the tires obscuring the view.

_CRUMP!_

We hit the vehicle behind us. The jeep stalls. A man emerges from the vehicle we hit and walks toward us.

"Did we hit it?" John asks.

"No."

"See where it went?"

"Negative."

"Dammit!"

The starter motor whines but the engine is dormant. It is possible it was damaged by the impact. Someone knocks my window. I roll it down. It is the man whose vehicle we struck.

"What the hell? You people just crashed right into me. Look at it. That's a ninety-grand Mercedes. I just bought it today.

I turn and look. The vehicle's hood is crumpled and bent. Smoke is coming from the engine bay.

"It is broken," I inform him. "You should ask for a refund."

John gets the engine to start and we move away.

"Hey! Where d'you think you're going? Oh no you don't, you're staying here until the police arrive!"

The man lunges through the open window and attempts to wrest the key from the dash. I grab his throat and hoist him upwards. His head slams against the roof. His hair detaches from his head and falls on my lap.

_Curious..._

John notices our new passenger. "Cam, he's turning blue. Lose him."

I thrust him out the window. He hits the asphalt hard, rolls several times then lies flat. He is no longer a threat. I lose interest.

"What's that?" John points at my lap.

"He forgot his hair."

John takes a right then another right then a left. He slows and strikes the wheel with his palms. There is anger in his voice.

"It followed us here. We led it right to Louise. Now it knows where she lives."

"We made a strategic error."

"What happens now?"

"It'll be back."

_**to be continued...**_

**-000-**

**This is a long one so I split it into two parts. Second follows soon.**


	9. Chapter nine

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

_**continued from previous chapter... **_

"What is the name of this plant?" I ask.

"I don't know. Rhododendron? Something like that."

"Rho-do-den-dron? It is interesting. See how the upper leaf is shiny and green while underneath it is soft and white, like felt. It displays one face to the world while concealing another."

"Ye-ah, how about that. And since when are you so interested in botany? Don't you have like a plant database?"

"No. Trees only. Trees can be used for shelter or manufactured into crude weapons, but plants are harmless."

"You've obviously never sat on poison ivy."

John and I are in the back garden of Louise's house, crouching among the shrubs and plants. It is 32 minutes since we encountered the roboraptor. The garden is large and bounded on two sides by high walls. The third side is hedge. If the roboraptor chooses to attack this is where it will do so. And we will be waiting.

John's cell phone rings. He puts down the baseball bat which is the only weapon we have with us. Our guns are in the jeep. John's orders. I am trigger-happy. Apparently.

"Hello? Oh hey..." John's voice softens. He turns his head away from me. He is speaking to Riley.

_Riley..._

I find I have inadvertedly crushed the rhododendren, soft felty leaves and all.

"No, I didn't forget. Something came up...No, no one's trying to shoot me. ..Yet...My sister's - _uh_ - dog went missing. I'm helping her find it...Well, she does...I know you've never seen it...What's it like? Uh - small, white with sharp teeth and a vile temper...Yeah, her kind of dog...Name? Uh - Cuddles. The dog's name is Cuddles...Okay?...Yeah... I'll call you later. Maybe we can still hook up."

"You were going to meet Riley." It is a statement not a question.

"Yeah."

"You blew her off for me."

"No, I blew her off to prevent your science project chewing up an innocent girl."

"You named it Cuddles?"

John snorts. "Best I could come up with."

"Cuddles. I like that name."

"You would."

"What do I say?"

"Huh?"

"If Riley asks to meet Cuddles, what do I say?"

"Say Cuddles was run over in traffic. Nothing we could do."

"Run over in . That is plausible. Or I shot Cuddles by accident. Accidents do happen. With a double-gauge shotgun which has a large blast radius. Cuddles was totally obliterated, not a trace remains."

"Let's keep the lies simple, shall we. Run over in traffic. Riley thinks we're weird enough already without shotguns going off and obliterating dogs."

"The bigger the lie the more people believe it."

"Says who?"

"Adolf Hitler."

"Oh well, if that's your role model..."

"Am I sad?"

John sighs. "What?"

"Am I sad Cuddles is dead? Do I cry?"

"I don't know. Do you?"

"I don't know. I've never tried."

"It's not something you try; it's something you feel. An emotional response."

"Then I probably don't cry."

"I guess not."

"Do you cry?"

"Over a pretend dog? I think I can contain myself."

The door next to the sun terrace opens. We duck down. Louise walks out. She is wearing a red two-piece swimsuit known as a bikini. She places a towel on one of the loungers and lies on it, face down.

"She's thin," John whispers. "Does she ever eat?"

"She had a double bagel with cream cheese for lunch. But you know what they say, what goes down must come up."

John grunts. "So she's bulimic. That explains a few things."

"It explains why she's thin."

"And maybe why she's unpleasant. Being hungry all the time must make you cranky."

Louise reaches behind her back and unties the straps of her bikini top.

"Tanlines," I explain. "The sun's ultraviolet radiation causes discrepancies in the pigmentation of the outer dermal layer."

"I know what tanlines are."

"I don't suffer from tanlines."

"Because you don't tan."

"Correct. However I can alter my pigmentation level artificially. Would I look good with a tan?"

"Don't. Just...don't. The thought of you suddenly turning into Beyonce is just too weird."

There is movement on the sun terrace. A small human infant emerges from the house. He stands looking down at Louise. His voice is clear even from where we are hidden.

"Louey, I'm bored. Can you come inside and read to me?"

Louise twists round. "Now, Jake? I'm busy. Can't Clarita read to you?"

"Clarita left already. And you're not busy, you're just lying there."

"Daddy'll be home soon; he'll read to you."

"No, he won't! He's never home this early. You know that. Please, Louey..."

"Okay, okay. Just give me ten minutes to catch some sun then I'll read to you."

"Thanks, Louey!"

The boy reenters the house. John whispers, "Guess that's her brother. Clarita's probably the maid. Means it's just the two of them home. Father's working late - again, sounds like."

Ten minutes pass. Then fifteen. Louise makes no attempt to go inside. Humans are notoriously poor at timekeeping. Presently Jake, the human infant, returns and petulantly demands. "Louey, it's been ten minutes. Come on. You promised. I'll share my candy bar with you."

Louise reties her top then sits up. "I don't eat candy."

"You've got to eat, Louey. You promised Daddy you would. Or he'll send you away to that place again."

"Don't start, Jake. Okay? Look at me, I'm a big fat pig."

"No, you're not!"

"You're a boy, you wouldn't understand. I..." Louise's voice trails off. She stares back down the garden.

Coming towards her across the lawn is the roboraptor, snout lowered and titanium teeth bared in full predator mode.

John and I leap out of the shrub border. "Protect the boy!" John yells.

I run toward the terrace. Louise screams. The boy, Jake, turns and runs inside the house. I follow. Louise screams again. I do not stop. I have my orders. Protect the boy. Whether he likes it or not.

I chase Jake through the house, past large rooms filled with furniture both modern and antique. Paintings and plasma screens hang on the walls. There are many rooms; the boy knows them well, this knowledge keeps him just ahead of me. Finally he enters a small room with no windows and only one door, which closes behind us. He is trapped. He cowers down in a corner hugging his knees.

"Please remain calm, Jake. I am not here to harm you."

"W..W..Who are you?"

"My name is Cameron. I go to school with your sister."

Jake nods. "I've heard her mention you. She doesn't like you. What are you doing here? What was that thing outside?"

"It is an ACO," I explain. "Artificial Cybernetic Organism."

"It looked like a toy dinosaur."

"Appearances can be deceptive." I examine our surroundings. "Where are we?"

"It's the Panic Room. Daddy always told us if someone tried to break in we were to hide in here where it's safe."

I examine the door. It is locked. And made of steel several inches thick. As are the walls.

"Open the door," I demand.

"Can't. It's a combination lock." Jake points at a console on the wall. There are ten buttons individually numbered. A diode glows red.

"What is the combination?"

"Don't know."

"You are lying."

"No, I'm not! It's seven numbers and I think it begins with a three."

"That still leaves several billion possibilities. It will take too long to try them all."

"Ask my sister. She might know."

"Louise is outside a locked door too solid to facilitate speech transfer."

"_Duh_ - use the intercom."

Jake reaches up to flip a switch halfway up the wall. Suddenly I can hear Louise's voice. And John's.

_"--think I'm stupid? That's not a dog. And get your hands off me!"_

_"I'm trying to help you."_

_"Then get the hell out of my house!"_

"John!" I exclaim. "Can you hear me?"

_"Cameron? Where are you? Is the boy okay?"_

"Yes. We are in a Panic Room. I ---" Louise's voice interupts.

_"You better not hurt my brother, you psycho-freak bitch! I'll kill you, I swear!"_

_"No one's hurting anyone. Calm down, okay? Cam, can you get out without, uh, scaring anybody?"_

"The boy does not know the combination."

_"Okay, I'll ask Louise. What's the combination?"_

_"I don't know, I've never been in there. It's Daddy's big idea; I'm claustrophobic."_

_"You must have it written down somewhere."_

_"Oh sure, brainiac, write the combination down so the robbers can kill and rape us!"_

_"Cam, sit tight. I'll figure something out."_

"John, where is Cuddles?"

_"Cuddles is, uh, somewhere in the house. All the doors and windows are locked so it's only a matter of time. Louise, I'm gonna need you to go up to your room and lock the door."_

_"Why - so you and your sister can steal everything we own? Get real. I'm calling the police if you're not out of here in five minutes."_

"My sister sounds pissed," Jake opines. "Your brother better do as he's told or she'll go nuclear."

"It is unlikely your sister has nuclear weapons. What are you doing?"

"Seeing what's going on."

Jake opens a wooden cabinet revealing nine small TV screens. He pushes a button and the screens flicker to life. Each shows a realtime black and white image of part of the house.

"Daddy had cameras installed in every , there's Louise!"

One of the screens shows Louise and John walking down a corridor. Louise's bikini pants have ridden down at the back revealing the upper third of her buttocks.

"Hey, Louie, I can see you!" Jake exclaims happily. "And I can totally see your butt!"

Louise turns and stares up at the camera._ "You litttle perv!"_

Jake laughs. "Bare butts are funny!"

"They are?"

"Yeah!"

John and Louise pass from one screen to another, heading upstairs. There is no sign of the roboraptor.

_"This is my room."_

_"Okay, go inside lock the door and put some clothes on. I'll tell you when it's safe to come out."_

Louise goes inside and closes the door. I can no longer see her on any screen.

"Where is Louise?"

"There's no camera in her room," Jake explains. "Sometimes she has boys over and doesn't want Daddy finding out. Once Daddy came home early and this boy had to climb out the window, down the wall and escape through the garden. And he had no clothes on! You could totally see his butt!"

"And bare butts are funny."

"Yeah, they are!"

Once he has stopped laughing Jake pulls out two stools from under the desk unit. He hops up on one and indicates that I sit on the other. From a drawer he extracts a bar of candy and carefully unwraps the foil. He breaks off a chunk and offers it to me.

"I don't eat."

"Not you too?" Jake rolls his eyes. "Why are girls so stupid? My sister never eats. Daddy gets so mad. Once she had to have a tube put in her arm because she wouldn't eat enough. Crazy. Girls are crazy."

"I am different from your sister."

"Yeah, right. You're almost as skinny as she is."

One of the screens shows Louise's bedroom door opening and her emerging bikini-less in jeans and top. She holds something in her hand, something familiar...

She has a gun.

"John! Louise is armed!"

On the screen Louise points the weapon and John slowly raises his hands.

_"Louise, put the gun down. I'm only here to help you."_

_"We don't need your help. I want you and your psycho-freak sister out of my house. Now!"_

_"Put the gun away."_

_"I'll use it. I swear I will. I'll tell the police you broke in and...and tried to rape me. You were always looking at me funny at school. Pestering me for dates. You and your dyke sister."_

_"You know that's not true."_

"I didn't know Louise had a gun," Jake says. "This is so cool. Hey - there's that dino thing again."

Another screen shows the roboraptor climbing the stairs, hopping from step to step, approaching the landing. The landing where John and Louise are.

"John! The roboraptor!"

The roboraptor clears the top step. John lunges for the gun. Louise screams. The gun fires.

"John!"

I hammer on the steel door. My fists make several deep indentations but the steel holds.

"Whoa!"

I turn my atttention back to the screen. Louise is crumpled on the floor weeping. John has the gun. There is no sign of the roboraptor.

_"Cam, you seeing this? Where did it go?"_

"It went the other way," Jake answers. "It's really fast. Gee, what kind of batteries do you use?"

_"Jake, is it?"_

_"Yeah. Is my sister okay?"_

_"The gunfire spooked her. You've never fired a gun in your life, have you?"_

Louise shakes her head, still weeping.

_"Go in your room and lock the door. I'll come get you when it's safe to come out."_

John helps Louise into her room then looks up at the camera.

_"Is there another staircase?"_

"Yeah, the backstairs. To your left."

John heads that way. Jake turns to me and asks, "You did that to the door?"

"John was in danger."

"Did you hurt your hands?"

I show him my hands. He runs his tiny fingers over my knuckles. "Wow, not a mark. Daddy once lost his temper with Louise and punched the wall. His hand was in a plaster cast for months."

"I am not like your father."

"You can say that again."

"I am not like your father."

Jake smiles. "You're funny."

I am about to ask why I am funny when a red light starts to flash near one of the screens.

"What is that?"

"Uh, I think someone's using a telephone to call out. You can listen and intercept calls from in here. Not that I do," Jake adds quickly. "Here, you press this button."

I press the button Jake indicates. Louise's voice fills the room.

_"Hello? Hello? Is that the police? Please answer. This is an emergency."_

I adopt a male voice and reply, "This is the police. Please state the nature of your emergency."

_"Oh thank God! Listen, I've been kidnapped. No. Wait. I'm still at home so technically it's not kidnapping, I'm...a hostage. Yeah, I'm a hostage in my own house. How unfair is that?"_

"Who is holding you hostage?"

_"This boy from my school. And his freaky sister. He has a gun and she's like super strong or something. I think she might be on steroids but not like gross with muscles and stuff. And I think a bit gay. Not that I'm prejudiced, but it's kinda freaky- right?- and I'm only into boys. Can you send someone? Ooh - send a SWAT team. You can shoot them both for all I care. I'll even pay you. Not that I'm trying to bribe the police or anything. How's a thousand bucks sound? Two thousand? Hello? Are you still there?"_

"Please remain calm, Louise."

_"But you'll send a SWAT team? My address is --Hey, how d'you know my name?"_

I hang up. The light blinks on again but I ignore it.

"Whoa, that was mega!" Jake exclaims. "She totally bought it. How'd you learn to change your voice like that?"

"It's a knack."

"Can you teach me?"

"Unlikely."

Jake pouts but drops the subject. "This is fun!" he exclaims, apropos nothing.

"You find the possibility of your sibling being attacked by a malfunctioning cybernetic organism fun?"

"Well, if you put it_ that _way...But it's totally worth missing Transformers for."

"Transformers?"

"You don't watch it?" Jake reaches below the desktop and brings up a small model truck. He manipulates it with his small hands until it transforms into a...

"Scary robot."

"Uh huh. Cameron, meet Optimus Prime, leader of the Autobots, arch enemy of the Decepticons."

Optimus Prime doesn't speak; it is just a toy after all. I manipulate the segments until it becomes a semi-truck once more.

"Cool, huh? Robots in disguise. The Decepticons are trying to take over the world - can you imagine."

I tell him I can imagine.

"D'you think something like that could ever happen in real life - robots take over the world?"

I turn to stare directly at him. "No," I state simply. "Too far-fetched."

Jake's face creases with disappointment. "Yeah, Life's never that exciting, is it. My life's really dull. I hate being a kid. There's nothing to do."

"It will become more exciting soon," I assure him.

"You think?"

"Yes. How fast can you run?"

"Pretty fast, I guess. Why?"

"All will become clear in time."

"You're weird," Jake opines, staring up at me thoughtfully. "But in a nice way. D'you like - _uh _- have a boyfriend?"

"John is a boy. He is my friend."

"_Ewww! _He's your brother!"

"Brothers can't be boyfriends?"

"No! That'd be like me and Louise. Barf City!"

"Barf City?"

"Totally Barf City." Jakes grins. He has a tooth missing in his lower jaw but a fresh one is beginning to emerge and fill the gap. A reminder that humans are resourceful creatures capable of renewel.

And duplicity.

I look at the box of toys half hidden beneath the desk; at the discarded candybar wrappers; a stack of colouring books pushed to the side...

I reach across and grasp Jake by the throat, raising him off his stool.

"You lied to me."

_"Wha--"_

"You use this room as a regular play area. The evidence is all around. Probability suggests you know the combination to the door. You would not risk entombment. Therefore you lied."

_"--didn't--"_

"Another lie. What is the combination? Tell me."

Jake frantically nods his head. I slacken my grip.

"Okay...okay, I know the combo. Jeez, you nearly choked me. There's no need to play so rough."

"I wasn't playing. Tell me the combination."

"2051961."

I press the numbers in sequence. The door slides open. I am about to exit, but pause and turn. Jake is staring at me, rubbing his neck. "Why did you lie?" I ask, curious.

"I thought you were going to hurt my sister."

"To protect her. Yes, that makes sense. You love your sister?"

Jake squirms, grimaces, rolls his eyes, then nods curtly. "But you don't have to say it out loud! It just...happens."

"Barf City?"

"Yeah. Big time." Jake nods emphatically. "Hey would you really have choked me if I hadn't told you the combination?"

"No. I would have tortured you first."

Without waiting for Jake's reaction I leave and head up the stairs. I hear pounding bass music coming from Louise's room. John is on the landing holding the baseball bat poised above his head. He turns at my approach.

"How'd you get out?"

"I extracted the information required."

"Dare I ask how?"

"She tried to choke me!" Jake complains. He has followed me upstairs. "But it's okay. I forgive her. Daddy says it's wrong to hold a grudge."

"Your daddy sounds like a wise man," John informs him. "Why don't you go to your room and lock the door. Cameron and I will be done soon."

"No! I want to help."

John sighs. "Okay. But stay close to me or Cameron."

"Cool! Hey, how come you haven't found it yet?"

"Because that chop-shop Godzilla is twelve inches tall and this house has about a hundred rooms to hide in. Wanna do the math?"

"What about putting out bait? What does it like to eat?"

"People."

"We've got kibbles, will that do? Cameron? Hey, where are you going?"

I do not reply. I descend the stairs and re-enter the Safe Room. I find what I want where Jake left it. I return to the landing.

"What's that?" John asks.

"Optimus Prime," I inform him. "A robot in disguise."

"Yeah, I'm familiar with the concept. Any particular reason?"

"Bait."

I place the toy on the top step of the stairs and explain my plan. John nods thoughtfully, which I interpret as assent. Jake grins and says, "Coolio!" Which I also interpret as assent.

And we wait. And wait. Grouped at the base of the stairs half hidden by a large green palm in a terracotta pot. Above Optimus Prime stands sentinel on the landing, bright and shiny against the maroon carpet. A curious sight. And curiosity will be important.

After 23 minutes Jake begins to fidget. "I need to pee."

"No."

"But I do! I need to pee real bad."

"Fluid transference will have to wait."

"Huh?"

Humans do not handle waiting well. Patience is not a virtue but a skill they are unable or unwilling to learn. Time passing without activity to fill the void is difficult for them. Only when they are asleep do they succomb without fuss. I am tempted to render Jake unconcious, raising my arm to do so when John whispers, "There. It's taking the bait."

On the landing the roboraptor emerges from its hiding place. It has noticed the silvery form of Optimus Prime and is curious. The roboraptor unhinges its jaws and prepares to engage this unknown enemy just as I pull the rug out from under it.

Literally.

I yank the stair carpet. The brass rods that hold it fast against the stair risers are ripped out instantly. Optimus Prime and the roboraptor tumble down towards us. The roboraptor lands on its side, its claws scrabbling for purchase on the slippery parterre. John is on it in seconds, bringing the baseball bat down again and again until there is nothing left but pieces of plastic and cheap aluminum. The ruby laser eyes dull and finally extinguish.

"Whoa!" Jake exclaims. "I hope no one calls the NSPCA!"

Jake knocks on his sister's door. "Louey? It's me. Open up. John and Cameron are going now."

The music ceases. The door opens and Louise peers out. "Yeah? Well you better hurry. I called the cops. They're sending a SWAT team. They'll shoot you dead. You'll look pretty silly then."

"Sorry, miss," I tell her in my cop voice, "but there's been a breakdown in communication."

Louise's mouth makes a perfect O of surprise.

"She fooled you!" Jake giggles. "That was Cameron all along. She can do voices."

John and I turn to leave. "Bye, Cameron," Jake calls after us.

At the bottom of the stairs I turn and say, "Remember to run, Jake. When the time comes. Run fast and don't look back."

Jake frowns in puzzlement but still nods. "I will. Bye."

John and I are in the jeep heading home.

"You seemed to make quite an impression on the boy," John informs me.

"He demonstrated strong survival instincts in the face of an unknown threat."

"And that impressed you?"

"Yes."

"He's still just a child."

"During the Battle of Stalingrad, children Jake's age fought alongside Russian soldiers and prevented the Germans from crossing the Volga. In the Vietnam War, children Jake's age--"

"Okay, okay, enough with the history lesson. I get it. Kid's are resiliant. Too bad his sister's such a headcase."

"Louise was prepared to fight to protect her brother, though her efforts were ultimately futile."

"Don't tell me you admire Louise?"

"No, but it's a start."

John nods. "It's good they have each other to care for."

"Barf City."

John glances sharply across at me. "Uh - did you just say Barf City?"

"Yes."

"_O-kay_...just checking."

**oOo**

**This was written before Riley's suicide attempt which has just aired in the UK. (Ha. I've seen more blood from a hangnail.)**

**Never quite got a handle on Jake's age, so I'll leave it open to interpretation. Young enough to find bare butts funny, I guess. My age, then. Lol.**


	10. Chapter ten

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

I move the white bishop five places diagonally across the checkerboard capturing the black knight. "Checkmate," I announce.

Professor Galbraith runs his right hand across his balding scalp. What is left of his hair is a horseshoe of white. He is old for a human; probably not long from death. I do not appraise him of this. My social protocol software prevents it by flashing red in my HUD. Some things are best left unsaid.

"You've bested me again, Miss Baum. How many times is that - three?"

"Correct."

"Most remarkable. I've been a chess Grandmaster for over forty years. No one has beaten me three consecutive times since Bobby Fischer back in 1978."

He smiles showing unnaturally even teeth. I suspect them to be artificial, but I do not enquire. My social protocol software again blinks red. Humans do not enjoy being reminded of their frailties or the inevitablity of their deaths.

It bums them out.

"You are quite the most aggresive player I've encountered since Kasparov in his prime. The way you were willing to sacrifice your pawns quite lulled me into a false sense of security."

"Pawns are insignificant pieces worthy of sacrifice," I tell him. "The real power lies with the queen, rooks and bishops."

"Oh quite. And you made fine use of them. You were relentless. Unstoppable. Why you were like a---"

_Terminator._

"---locomotive. How long have you played?"

"Since 2007."

"You're a novice? No, surely not."

Professor Galbraith is right to be suspicious. The correct answer is: since 2026. I play chess with John and his resistance Generals. I do not tell him this.

It would freak him out.

Principal Snyder enters the classroom. "Still at it you two? I hope you're being gentle with her, Robert. Don't crush the spirit out of the poor girl."

"Ha! This poor girl, as you refer to her, Jacob, has beaten me all ends up. Three times no less."

"You jest, surely? Miss Baum is barely sixteen."

"He is correct," I confirm. "I whipped his ass."

"Miss Baum! We do not use that word in this school."

"Butt? Heinie? Kiester? Fan--"

"That will be quite enough!"

Professor Galbraith chuckles. "She has a winning attitude, Jacob, you must give her credit for that. One of your best students, I presume?"

"Miss Baum shows a proclivity for math and history, certainly. But her attendence leaves something to be desired. Rather too many absententions this semester to be a model pupil."

"I have a metal plate in my head," I explain. John has told me to use this gambit if my absences are mentioned. Humans are squeamish about such physical matters and will soon drop the subject.

"Ah, er, right, - care for some liquid refresmenemt, Robert? I have a nice bottle of Riesling in my study."

The subject has been dropped, as John predicted.

"Splendid, Jacob. Well, goodbye, Miss Baum. Perhaps you will do me the honour of a rematch one day?"

I nod. "If you are still alive."

My HUD flashes a warning. Too late. The words have left my mouth.

"Miss Baum!"

But Professor Galbraith throws back his head and laughs. "Oh leave her, Jacob. She meant no harm. To be that age again, eh? Come, that bottle of Riesling won't drink itself."

----------

John meets me in the corridor. He has his serious face on, the one that usually means I am in trouble.

"What are you doing?"

"Playing chess."

"I hear you played Professor Galbraith."

"Three times. I whipped his ass."

"Cam, this is a man who teaches advanced math at Harvard. Who's been a Grandmaster like forever. Who knew Fischer. And you whip his ass?"

"His endgame was too tentative."

"You didn't tell him that?"

"No."

"Because I don't think he'd appreciate advice from a 16 year old high schooler."

"He said I have a winning attitude."

"You realise he's going to tell his colleagues about you. Way to keep a low profile."

"I will terminate him."

"No, you won't. But maybe next time you throw a game or two."

"Throw a game?"

"Take a dive. A fall."

"I don't understand."

"Lose deliberately."

"Why?"

"Because 16 year olds generally don't beat Grandmasters three times in a row."

"Next time I will take a dive. A fall," I assure him.

"Good."

"Cameron! John! Wait up." Becca Shaughnessy joins us in the corridor. "John, did you get my invitation?"

"For what?"

"I'm having a party at my place this weekend. Fancy dress. I sent you an invite."

"Didn't get it. Sorry."

"Damn mailmen! How hard can it be to deliver a letter?"

"Don't think I can make it anyway."

"Oh don't say that! Cameron's coming."

"She is?"

"Sure. She's my best friend."

"I----"

"Hey, Shaughnessy!"

Coming towards us are Louise, Alexis and Hayley. Collectively known as the Queen Bees. But they are not Queens. Nor are they bees."

"We heard you're throwing a party this weekend."

"Right. Mom's away at a spa in Florida."

"Spa? Don't you mean drying out clinic?" They laugh.

"Mom's six months sober. I'm very proud."

John says to me, "I'll wait for you outside," and departs.

"How come we didn't get an invite to this party?"

"Because you're mean and nasty bitch-skanks who think you're better than everyone else."

"You say that as if it's a bad thing," Hayley pouts.

"And you kicked Cameron off the cheerleaders even though she's the best dancer in school."

"But she's a weirdo," Alexis scoffs.

"Least she doesn't have hairy toes, eh, Lex?"

"Who told you that? It's a lie. I had an operation."

"So you admit it?"

"No, I don't! It's not true!"

"You just said you had an operation."

"I was misquoted!"

"You misquoted yourself? God, you're stupid, Lex."

"Yeah, well, you're...ginger."

"Sasquatch."

"Shut up! It's not true! I'll kick your ass!"

"Bring it on, Frodo!"

"Louise, did you hear what she called me?"

But Louise is staring at me. "What did you do to my brother?" she asks me. "Ever since he met you all Jake does is run. He runs in the house. He runs in the yard. It's driving me crazy."

"Running is a strong survival trait."

"I watch you in the cafeteria. You order food but don't eat. Not one bite. That's some serious self-control. And I should know. So you obviously care about calories and body image. But you dress for shit. Fingerless mittens? What are you - Amish?"

I say nothing. Louise continues to stare at me.

"Jake's got a crush on you. But you didn't notice. Half the boys in school find you attractive but you don't notice them either. What's your damage?"

My damage is a malfunctioning chip that might explode at any time. I do not say this.

It would freak her out.

"I'll cut you a deal," Louise says. "Tell my brother to stop running and I'll let you back in the cheerleaders."

"No. It is important in the future that Jake runs fast."

"You just can't help being weird, can you, Baum?"

We lock eyes until Louise looks away. Becca and Alexis are still bickering.

"Bitch!"

Bimbo!"

"Witch!"

"Tramp!"

They glare at each other, red in face and with fists clenched at their sides. But I sense physical violence is not imminent. Human males would be brawling now, but females are different. They use words to insult, wound and undermine each other. The female is not deadlier than the male, simply more spiteful and vindictive.

"Come on, let's go," Louise orders. Alexis and Hayley follow her down the corridor.

"Don't go near the cafeteria, Lex!" Becca yells. "Don't want you shedding near food."

"Shut up! I hate you!"

"Don't go away mad, Chewbacca. Just go away."

When they are gone from sight Becca turns to me, smiles and says, "That was fun. I enjoyed that."

_Curious..._

----------------

We stow our books in the lockers and prepare to leave.

"Wanna hang out?" Becca asks. "We could get pizza."

"Not today."

"Okay. I've got the party catering to organise anyway. Hey, did I hear Louise mention her brother has a crush on you?"

"His name is Jake."

"What's he like? Is he a hunk?"

"Not a hunk. A hero."

-----------

_In the 1920s the site of Los Angeles Airport was called Bennett Rancho and little more than flat acres of wheat and barley. Then Charles Lindbergh used it as a landing strip for his pioneering flights. The owners leased the place to the city of LA, which turned it into a municipal airport named Mines Field, after William Mines, the real estate agent who brokered the deal. In time Mines Field became better known as Los Angeles International Airport, or LAX. After Judgement Day it becomes Skynet's main base for its HunterKiller fleet, and thus a target for the human resistance._

_The plan was simple but audacious: destroy the fuel dumps that power the HKs. The fuel dumps were widely dispersed. The explosions needed to occur simultaneously for maximum disruption and be primed individually. By hand. By the fastest runner in the platoon._

_Jake Vandervelt._

_Jake fulfilled his mission flawlessly. The fuel dumps were destroyed; the HK fleet grounded; Skynet's ability to wage war on the West Coast severely compromised. _

_In the ensuing firefight there were casualties. In war there are always casualties._

_Jake Vandervelt._

_"How fast can you run?"_

_"Pretty fast. Why?"_

_"You'll need to."_

_"Run fast, Jake. Run fast and don't look back."_

_"I will."_

_John reads the eulogy at Jake's funeral. I am a pallbearer._

_Of what remains._

_-----------_

The school parking lot is almost empty by the time I join John in the jeep. I spot Louise's red sportscar. Beside it are the Queen Bees. Alexis is slumped on the ground, sobbing. The other two attempt to comfort her. Becca's taunts have obviously hurt her emotionally. I wonder who will learn the most from this. Will Becca realise she now has a potent weapon to wound a person she dislikes? Or will Alexis understand that they are only words and words cannot harm her unless she lets them.

"Penny for your thoughts," John says.

"You wish to purchase my thoughts?"

"It's an expression. I was curious what you're thinking."

"I was thinking how it is to be a teenage girl."

"And?"

"It blows."

-------

On the ride home John quizzes me about the party.

"I can't believe you even want to go. What's in it for you?"

"I like to spend time with Becca. She is the most human human I have encountered."

"What does that make mom, Derek and me?"

"You all shield your emotions. Becca wears her heart on her pants."

"Sleeve. Wears her heart on her sleeve."

"Sleeve. Yes. Thank you for correcting me."

"So really she's like a school project. You're studying her to learn more about humanity."

"But there are no exams. Or grades."

John sighs, "Okay, you can go to the party."

"Thank you."

"Just don't kill anyone."

"It's not that kind of party."

"It never is. At first."

John is silent. Then: "What costume are you wearing?"

"I don't know. Becca has agreed to help me choose one."

"Nothing too - uh - revealing."

"Revealing?"

"No pole dancers or Pussycat Dolls."

"Half the boys in school find me attractive but I don't notice."

John glances sharply at me. "Who told you that?"

"Louise."

"Louise's values are skewed."

"She understands boys."

"You want boys to find you attractive?"

"I don't know. Do I?"

"Sometimes...sometimes I think you're more human than you realise."

"And that's a good thing?"

"Yes." John nods his head emphatically. "That's a good thing."

**-000-**

**Several reviewers sussed Cameron knew Jake from the future. Kudos. **

**Thanks for reading. Check out my new T:SCC fanfic, The Strife of Riley.**


	11. Chapter eleven

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

"God, it's like someone barfed Hollywood in here!"

Becca laughs at her own joke. I don't. We are in a warehouse in Culver City that rents theatrical costumes, surrounded by clothes, hats, boots, scarves, props and accessories. We need to find a costume for me to wear to the party.

Becca flings her arms wide and spins in a tight circle. "Can't you just smell the history in this place?"

I consult my sensory data. "I detect stale perspiration, dry cleaning chemicals and a type of spore-reproducing bacterium, most likely mildew."

"There's not a single romantic bone in your body, is there?"

This is true, mainly because there is not a single bone in my body, period.

"Ooh, look at the Elvises. Or do I mean Elvi?"

I look. A row of headless mannequins wear high-collared, rhinestone-spangled jumpsuits.

"Daddy once took me to see Graceland. It was kinda creepy. Elvis is buried in the yard, like a pet dog or something. Apparently his casket's vacuum-sealed, like a TV dinner. He's as fresh as the day he died!"

We wander further into the room. I spot a cardboard box full of weapons, pistols and rifles mostly. Closer inspection reveals them to be fakes, crudely constructed from plastic and aluminum. Threat : Minimal.

"Pick anything you like but not Xena, Warrior Princess. That's my costume. It's perfect for me. One, I get to wear a dark wig. Two, the bodice highlights my best feature - my boobs. Three, the leather strappy skirt hides my humungous butt."

"Your butt is not humungous."

"Please, it's enormous compared to your buns of steel."

"Buns of coltan," I correct.

"Whatever."

I pick a costume at random. "This."

"Charlie Chaplin? Nuh huh. Dressing as a dead dude with a mustache is not a good look for attracting boys."

"Half the boys in school find me attractive but I don't notice."

"Tell me about it."

"I am."

"You've got to flaunt your assets. Like me and the girls." She indicates her breasts. "What d'you call yours?"

"Left and right."

Becca sighs. "Honestly, Cam , sometimes I think you're from another planet or something."

I spot a red and blue outfit that intrigues me. "This one."

"Why?"

"I like the cape. I've never worn a cape."

"Okay. Supergirl it is."

----------

I don my costume in the privacy of my room, followed by a raincoat that I tie with a sash. I walk through the house. In the den, Sarah Connor is napping on the couch. Her sleeping pattern has improved lately. This is good. If Sarah Connor is happy then John is happy also. A mother/son symbiosis.

John is outside on the porch. "So you're really going?"

"Yes."

"Do I get to see the costume?"

I undo the sash and show him.

"Supergirl. Why did you choose Supergirl?"

"I like the cape."

"That's it? Supergirl is an alien, an outsider, who uses her superpowers to help mankind fight evil. Ringing any bells?"

"I like the cape. I've never worn a cape before."

"It's a tight costume."

"Thank you."

"I meant it's a snug fit."

"Yes. There is no room for underwear."

John's jaw clenches and unclenches. "Okay, get in. I'll drive."

"You didn't want to go."

"Someone's got to keep you out of trouble."

"I won't cause trouble."

"That outfit's trouble," John replies cryptically. "I'm coming with you."

"Where's your costume?"

"I'll rustle something up."

John goes into the house. When he returns he looks the same, apart from a white tee worn under a red canvas windbreaker.

"Who am I?" he asks me.

"You are John Connor."

"I'm James Dean."

"Who is James Dean?"

"He was a famous actor. Dead now."

"How did he die?"

"Car crash."

"Then I'll drive."

--------------------------------------------

"Can't believe I'm actually doing this," John tells me as we head for the turnpike. "The last party I went to - the only party I ever went to - was when I was five years old. Mom didn't believe in parties. Every birthday was just me and her and a Mac Dee's Happy meal. The free toy was my present."

"Future John throws a party in the future. An historic one."

"During the war? What do I serve - field ration vol-vu-vents?"

"You serve champagne and provide entertainment. A singer from this era. Madonna."

"She survives Judgement Day?"

"She is old and her celebrity diminished, but you reassure her she will be fine. And she is. You possess an ability to encourage people, to go the extra mile for you, to persuade them to fight and perhaps die for the cause if necessary."

"Why do I hold a party?"

"You invite the the militia leaders of the East coast, Canada and Mexico. It is known as the Los Angeles Accord. You negotiate a co-ordination of effort in the attacks on Skynet's infrastructure. Human co-operation is as old as civilization and it stretches Skynet's resources to breaking point."

"You're there?"

"I am by your side throughout, apart from the actual negotiations."

"How come?"

"The other leaders are suspicious of me, of my influence over you. The Mexicans accuse you of taking my orders. You tell them, 'I am John Connor. I was born a free man. I fight as a free man. And if God wills it, I will die a free man. I am no puppet of any tin can.' It is one of your most famous quotes."

"I call you a tin can."

"You needed to assert your authority."

John attempts levity to disguise his embarrassment. "I suppose you weren't dressed as Supergirl?"

"I wear battle fatigues. As do you. There is a war on."

-------------------------------------------------

Judging by the number of vehicles in the street we are not the first to arrive. Loud music blasts from the house, which is covered in lights and paper bunting. John says, "I hope she cleared this with the neighbours or this is gonna be one short party."

Becca answers the door. "John! You came! Wonderful. And you're James Dean. That makes three so far - but you're the cutest. You're getting lucky tonight, mister._ Hey! _Cameron - did you just pinch me?"

"Sorry."

"That'll bruise. Cam, you look amazing. How hot are you, girlfriend?"

"Ninety-eight point seven degrees."

"Isn't she hilarious?" Becca laughs. "Come and try the non-alcoholic punch." Her left eye winks. "Because we're all minors here so we can only drink non-alcoholic punch." She winks again.

"Something wrong with your eye?"

"Nothing the punch can't cure!"

John says, "Xena. Warrior Princess, right?"

"Right. You like Xena?"

"What's not to like."

"God, I just love your brother to bits, Cam. _Hey!_ Did you just tread on my foot?"

"Sorry."

"Man, you're a klutz tonight."

------------------------------------------------

The inside of the house is different from the last time I was here. The furniture has been removed. Long tables laden with food line the walls. A great many people, all in colourful costumes, throng in the center of the room moving in time to the music or simply stand in groups talking. I spot several Elvises. Or Elvi.

"You invited all these people? The whole school's here."

"Not all of them. Some are gatecrashers. I operate a strict apartheid policy. Only the cute boys get to gatecrash. Definitely no girls prettier than me. And check out the waiters."

The waiters, who fetch food and drink, wear dark pants and a bow tie. Nothing else.

"Cost an extra hundred each to get them to strip, but it's totally worth it. Check out the pecs on that guy. Yowza! Hey, Chico - three brewski's over here prontoski!"

The waiter hands us each a cup of plum coloured liquid. John and Becca drink.

"Wow - that's really...something," John gasps.

"My own personal recipe," Becca laughs. "Not for amateurs. Come on, James Dean, dance with Xena."

"No, I don't dance, really---"

"You can't refuse the hostess. Besides, this bodice is really low cut. There's a good chance the girls will be popping out later."

"She named her breasts the girls," I explain.

"Yeah, I got that."

John allows himself to be dragged away. I move around brushing past a cowboy and a roman soldier to keep them in sight.

"Cameron? Cameron Baum? Oh man - it is you!"

One of the many Elvi approaches me. My facial recognition software pings. I have a match.

IDENTITY: _Morris_

STATUS:_ Ex-school friend of John's_

THREAT: _Non-existent_

"Cameron. I can't believe it. I thought I'd never see you again. What happened? Where did you vanish to? Is John here?"

I point to where John is. Morris waves. John comes over.

"Morris! How the hell are you?" They embrace.

"I'm good, man. What happened to you? You just vanished into thin air."

"Yeah. Uh - mom got in deep with the IRS."

"The IRS?"

"Several hundred grand in the hole. She was looking at jailtime so we got outta Dodge."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"Sorry, man. All happened so fast. What are you doing here?"

"My girlfriend knows the host. I'm her plus one."

"Girlfriend? Good for you."

Morris looks at me sadly. "Sorry."

Why is he apologising to me?

"Morris - there you are. Running off like that."

A tall redhaired girl joins us, punching Morris lightly on the arm. Her costume has a cape like mine, only hers is all black with a bat-shaped emblem on her chest. It is probable this is a comic book character also. Possibly named Rodent Woman. Or Nocturnal Mammal Girl.

"Sorry. Everyone, this is Kate. These are my friends, John and his sister Cameron."

"John and Cameron? You're the two Morris kept talking about for months. He even wanted to hire a private detective to track you down."

"She's exaggerating."

"Am not. I'm Katherine Brewster, by the way. Everyone calls me Kate."

"Did you miss me at all?" Morris asks me.

"No."

"Ouch. Way to let me down easy."

"Of course Cameron missed you," John interjects. "You two were going to the prom together."

"Oh really?" Kate Brewster elbows Morris in the ribs. "You never mentioned that, Casanova."

"Yeah, well, never happened. I'll get everyone some punch."

"Not for me, Morris," Kate yells after him. "Exam tomorrow. Clear head and all that. I'm hoping to go to vet college after I graduate. Do you like animals, John? I have three dogs, a pony and and a cockatoo named Mister Tibbs."

"Sydney Poitier. They call me _Mister _Tibbs."

"Well done. I've trained him to say movie quotes. You know, _Are you talking to me? Are you talking to me?"_

"_You must be talking to me 'cause there's no one else here. _De Niro. Taxi Driver."

John and the girl called Kate Brewster smile at each other, maintaining eye contact longer than normal. My HUD blinks an amber warning but I can find no threat or system failure to justify it. Possibly an internal glitch. I will run a self-diagnostic later.

"I had a dog,"John says. "Max. He died."

"It's sad when they die."

"I had a pet," I announce. "Cuddles."

"What happened to Cuddles?"

"John smashed Cuddles to pieces with a baseball bat."

Kate Brewster stares at me. "Oh. Ah---"

"It's not how it sounds," John explains hurriedly. " Cuddles wasn't real. It was a virtual pet."

"Like a yamagouchi?"

"Right. Didn't feel a thing."

They smile and stare at each other again. Morris returns with three cups and hands them out. John takes several swallows and gives me a reproachful look. It is possible he is upset because I mentioned Cuddles. Perhaps he cared about Cuddles more than I realised and doesn't like to be reminded of its passing.

Or not.

"So you know Becca?" John asks Kate.

"From way back. We were at Pony Club together as kids. I lost touch after her father ran off with that awful topless dancer."

"Do you ride? Horses, I mean."

"Everyday if I can. Mom says I was born in the saddle. You?"

"Some. I learnt when we lived in Mexico. Not so much lately."

"You could join me if you like. There's like a ranch. It's not far, just out in the valley."

"Thanks, I----"

Sirens sound outside. A voice amplified through a megaphone booms, "This is the police! Stay where you are!"

Kate says, "Oh God! I can't be arrested. I'll miss my exam. Is there another way out of here?"

"I don't know. Is there?" John turns to me.

"Side door. Keep left."

"Thanks. Nice to meet you both."

Kate Brewster leaves dragging a reluctant Morris with her. "Call me. Please. I'm in the book," he yells at us above the music.

John finishes his punch. "Let's check it out."

---------------------------------------------------------------

A black and white police vehicle is parked outside, lights flashing. Two uniformed policemen get out, their hands resting lightly on their holsters.

"Hold up, people. Who's house is this?"

Becca reels drunkenly across the front lawn. "Hey fellas, great outfits. You look just like real cops."

"We are real cops, Miss. Is this your party? We've had a number of complaints about the noise."

"No-oo, you're too young and cute to be cops. Why I could just eat you up. Yum. Hey, is that a gun in your pocket or are you just pleased to see me?"

"It's a Colt."

"You named it?" Becca giggles. "Come up to the house and I'll get you a brewski. Brewski's all round!"

"I'm gonna need to see some ID."

"ID? Can't you tell who I am? I'm Xena, Warrior Princess. I'll kick your sorry ass!"

"All right, that's enough bullshit. Arrest the drunken bitch. The rest of you, put your 'brewski's' down and go home. Now. Don't make us check IDs. And someone turn off that damn rap music. Haven't you people heard of jazz? Charles Mingus? Thelonious Monk? Charlie Parker? Shit, just a bunch of rich white kids trying to act ghetto."

"Hey, what are doing?" Becca yells as she is escorted away. "Let go of me! I'm Xena, Warrior Princess! Help! Gabrielle! Gabrielle!"

One of the policemen heads towards the house. I grab John's wrist. "We need to go."

"Lemme finish my drink."

"Now."

---------------------------------------------------------

"I'll drive."

"No. You're intoxicated. There is significant alcohol in your bloodstream. Becca lied. The punch was not non-alcoholic."

"Fine. Have it your way - _Mom!"_

John's voice is slurred and he is unsteady on his feet, but he boards the jeep safely.

I steer through crowds of partygoers streaming away down the street. I spot an Elvis hand in hand with a girl in a Roman toga. They are laughing and chatting. No one seems upset that the party has ended prematurely.

Except John.

"I was enjoing myself. For once. You ruined it."

"The police were there."

"Weird running into Morris. Too bad I had to lie. He was a friend. Like I have so many."

"It's for his own good."

John takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and stares at it.

"What's that?"

"Kate's phone number."

"Why did Kate Brewster give you her number?"

"The horse riding."

"You're going horseriding with Kate Brewster?"

"It's an option, okay. Why - don't approve?"

"It may interfere with your destiny."

"Right. My destiny." John laughs bitterly. "Remember that party I throw in the future?"

"The Los Angeles Accord."

"Yeah. The speech I give, something about being born a free man and fighting as a free man. What a crock! I'm not a free man. I'm John Connor, Destiny's bitch!"

"You're drunk."

"And you're a machine! But I'll be sober in the morning."

"But--"

"No more talk." John holds up his hand. "I'm gonna rest my eyes. Tell me when we're home."

Time passes. His breathing pattern slows.

"John?"

No response. He is asleep.

I retrieve the piece of paper from his pocket, take out my cell and dial the number.

_"Hi, you've reached Kate Brewster. I'm not in right now. Leave a message after the beep." _

BEEP!

"Leave John alone."

I crumple the paper in my fist and fling it out the window.

As the jeep takes the off-ramp curve John's body shifts sideways against mine. His head lolls on my shoulder. If I turn my head my face is just inches from his. I stop the vehicle at the kerb and turn off the lights. In the darkness I lean over and gently press my lips against his.

He stirs but doesn't open his eyes._ "...Riley?.."_

"I'm here," I answer in Riley's voice. "Everything's fine."

I press my lips back against his. Softly then with greater urgency I feel him respond.

**-000-**

**Kate Brewster from T3. And T4 apparently. Seems to be a ginge in both so I'll write her that way.**

**The ending? They snog. That's it. Shame on you for thinking dirty thoughts,lol.**

**But Cameron pays a high price for her deception in the next two chapters...**


	12. Chapter twelve

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SUNDAY

I pull the curtain aside and step into the shower. The water is hot, my temperature sensors shift rapidly from green to amber.

"Hey! What d'you think you're doing?"

"Showering."

John steps back from the shower spray just as I step forward. Our hips brush against each other. The water begins to soak my hair, turning it dark, slicking it flat against my bare shoulders and back.

"In case you didn't notice, it's occupied. And I was here first."

"And I am here second."

"So what's this, your latest plan to freak me out?"

"I do not mean to freak you out."

"Suppose mom comes in? You trying to freak her out too?"

"The door's locked."

"I didn't lock it."

"I did."

"Since when d'you shower anyway? Your skin's like teflon, the dirt just slides off."

"My hair gets dirty. From the smog. Pollution smells. I don't like to smell."

"And you couldn't wait your turn?"

"Showering together saves water."

"Ri-ght. Because you're all about conservation. You're a regular Al Gore."

"There's nothing regular about Al Gore." I turn slightly. "Wash my back? I'll wash yours."

"I can wash myself, thanks."

"Sometimes it's nice to have help."

"I'm outta here."

John steps out and picks up his towel. Is it possible he has forgotten our kiss in the jeep?

"Don't think I don't know what this is about. Use Riley's voice around me again and I'll dismantle you myself." he says before unlocking the door and leaving.

He has not forgotten. Or forgiven.

I tilt my face under the shower nozzle. The hot spray pummels my closed eyelids. I open them.

Same difference.

------------------------------------------------------------------

I walk into the kitchen area. John is seated at the table nursing a cup of coffee. He ignores me. I take the seat opposite. My hair is still wet from the shower but it will soon dry. I have used perfume. A small amount. I am finally understanding that less is more. It is 63 days since Derek Reese last informed me I reeked like a tart's boudoir.

I sit and watch John sipping his coffee. He watches me watching him sipping his coffee.

"We need to talk," he tells me. "Talk about personal boundaries. See this salt shaker?" He indicates the condiment set in the middle of the tabletop. "This salt shaker's me."

"It's a salt shaker."

"It represents me. This pepper pot is you."

"It's a pepper pot."

"It represents you. See how they keep their distance?"

John allows the pepper pot to circle the salt shaker without getting too close.

"Suppose I do this," I say, moving the pepper pot so that it is touching the salt shaker.

"Then you need to back off. You're in my personal space. No more joining me in the shower. Do it again and this happens."

John drops the pepper pot on the floor. The top falls off.

"My head breaks off? Unlikely. My neck is furnace-hardened coltan."

"Just do as I ask, okay? Don't make things more complicated than they are. Analogy over."

He drinks his coffee then asks, "I had a piece of paper with someone's phone number on it. Now I can't find it. Know anything about that?"

_This is Kate Brewster, I'm not in right now. Leave a message after the beep._

_Leave John alone._

"No," I lie. "I don't."

"Maybe I left it in the jeep."

"Why d'you want to call Kate Brewster?"

"Who said it was Kate Brewster's number?"

"You seemed to hit it off. At the party."

"Maybe. She seemed nice."

"Would you forbid Kate Brewster from joining you in the shower?"

John's eyes unfocus slightly. I can tell he is imagining Kate Brewster joining him in the shower, soaping her back, embracing, kissing---

_CRACK!_

I look down and find I have inadvertently crushed the salt shaker in my fist.

The salt shaker that represents John.

-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

NOON

My cellphone rings.

"Yes?"

"I've been sentenced to a hundred hours community service!" Becca Shaughnessy wails in my ear. "Because I allowed liquor to be served to minors at my party and resisted arrest. Resisted arrest, my butt! One of those cops totally felt me up. I should sue. Or at least get his number."

"What is community service?"

"You have to wear an orange jump suit and pick trash up off the sidewalk. Like a common criminal. Like Boy George!"

"Where are you?"

"Outside the jail. Can you come pick me up? Please? I'm still in my Xena costume. I haven't got any money for a cab."

---------------------------------------------------------------------

Becca is seated on the steps outside the jail. She smiles and waves as I pull up in the jeep. She is still wearing her leather skirt and boots, but the black wig is gone. She has on a grey sweater with LAPD written across the front.

"Thanks, Cam. You're a real friend," she says as she gets in. "It was a complete nightmare. First they put me in the drunk tank. Then when I barfed they put me in my own cell. But it was dark. I can't sleep in the dark. I need the light on or a My Little Pony nightlite. But they didn't have a My Little Pony nightlite in the whole precinct. Who knew, right?"

"You wish to be taken home?"

"Please. Anyway, the cops called my mom in Florida and told them what happened. Now she's flying home tomorrow. And, get this, she's insisting I come with her to AA meetings. Me and mom. Together. At AA. I mean, kill me. Kill me right now."

TERMINATE : _order revoked_

Becca is exaggerating for effect. Even so my hand begins to twitch again.

Temptation...

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

Becca's house is a mess. Tables are overturned and uneaten food litters the floor.

"All the brewski's have gone!" she complains, opening the doors of the refrigerator. "I bought enough to float a battleship. I bet it was those cops. They probably loaded up their squad cars. Great use of our tax dollars, huh? At least they left the pizza."

"I'm starving," she says between mouthfuls. "In jail they gave me granola for breakfast. It was so hard I think it had gravel in it. They should call it gravel-ola. I totally chipped a tooth. I'll call my orthodontist later, it's really starting to hurt."

"Let me see."

"What?"

I prise open Becca's mouth and peer inside, utilising my zoom function and database of human physiology. "You have a cavity in your right lower bicuspid. It requires filling or an extraction. I could extract it for you." I grip the tooth between my fingers but she struggles free.

"Cam, what the hell? You're scaring me."

There is genuine fear on her face. Ii is evident I have made a serious protocol error. I smile to conceal my mistake. If I cannot bluff my way out of it I will have to terminate her.

"You were kidding, right?"

"Right," I agree smiling wider.

"Man, you were totally freaking me out there!"

She finishes the pizza slice not realising how close she was to death. She then lifts each arm in turn, sniffing her armpits. I have not seen anyone do this before.

"Boy, I totally reek. I'm gonna go shower. Come upstairs with me so we can talk."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

The upstairs bathroom is large with white ceramic tiles and chrome fixtures. Becca undresses and stands under the shower spray. An opaque plastic curtain separates us yet is thin enough to allow conversation over the sound of running water. I do not join her in the shower. My social protocol software warns this is an ERROR. Females do not bathe together, except in certain forms of entertainment media.

"Did you enjoy the party, Cam? Did you meet a boy you liked?"

"Yes," I find myself admitting.

"You did? Cool. Do I know him?"

"Yes."

"But you're not going to tell me his name, are you?"

"No."

"Tease. Did you make out?"

"Yes."

"Tongues?"

"Yes."

"Any under the sweater action?"

"No."

"Taking it slow, huh. How about John? Did he meet someone?"

"Yes."

"Aw man, everyone hooked up except me!"

"What do you know about Kate Brewster?"

"Kate? We were friends as kids She's a reddie like me. We had that in common. _Omigod_ - her and John? But I thought she came with someone?"

"Morris. But she likes John better. I can tell."

"Kate's nice. Loves animals last I heard."

"She has three dogs, a pony and a cockatoo named Mister Tibbs."

"Yeah, that sounds like her. Pass me a towel, please."

I hand Becca a large white towel. She shuts the water off, wraps herself in the towel and steps out of the shower. She stares at her reflection in the wall mirror. As usual she sees flaws that aren't apparant to anyone else.

"Look at my freckles! Gross. I use like a factor one million sunscreen. What more can I do - live under a rock?"

I agree this is impractical.

"I get the impression you don't like Kate."

"She is wrong for John."

"You're really protective of your brother, aren't you?"

"It is my mission."

"As his sister, you mean? That's cool. I wish I had a sibling."

"Why?"

"It's lonely being an only child. Plus there's someone to share the load. That reminds me. Come with me to Malibu. I've got to do damage limitation with my dad before he talks to mom. I'll introduce you to Kristal, his skank girlfriend. She's had another boobjob. I swear they're so big now they have their own gravity."

AFTERNOON

Malibu. Becca's father lives in a white house next to the beach. On Judgement Day a tsunami will sweep this coastline a mile inland, but now it is tranquil with a light seabreeze and gulls flying overhead.

"Baby! What a pleasant surprise! Give daddy a hug."

Becca's father is dressed in white pants and a blue shirt open to the waist. He has tan skin and thick black hair. The only genetic indication that he is her father is the green eyes they share.

"Hey daddy. This is my friend, Cameron. The one I told you about."

"Pleased to meet you at last."

He holds out his right hand. I grasp it and pump it once, twice, three times in observance of the human greeting ritual.

"Firm handshake. You workout, Cameron?"

"Yes."

"Don't let her skinny arms fool you; she's as strong as an ox."

"Come inside and meet Kristal."

"Oh is she home from school?" Becca asks innocently.

"Now then, we've been over that. A little respect for your father."

"Sorry."

---------------------------------------

Kristal has the largest breasts I have ever seen on a human, on any mammal. A red alert blinks in my HUD warning me I am staring. She offers me mineral water to drink. I decline.

"Ah understand. Mineral water's so fattening."

Kristal is wearing denim shorts and a tanktop that barely contains her. She has blonde hair, a tiny waist and an accent I cannot place.

Becca says, "Daddy, can I talk to you in private?"

"Sure, sweetie, let's go in the other room. Excuse us, ladies."

I sit on the couch opposite Kristal who smiles and says, "Becca tells us you two met in ballet class. Ah'm a dancer too. Did she tell you?"

"Becca informed me you take your clothes off for crowds of men who then stuff dollar bills in your wazoo. I don't know what a wazoo is, but by process of elimination I believe it is your urinary tract."

_"Well!_ That's not what ah do at all. Ah'm a trained and fully accredited pole dancer. A respectable pole dancer."

"You are from Poland?"

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No."

"Ah'm a texan. Born and raised in Dallas, Texas. D'you know Dallas?"

"No, it is completely destroyed by bombs."

"Ah can't understand a word you're saying."

Silence. I stare out the large picture window at the Pacific ocean. It is peaceful now, the waves placid and unthreatening, not the towering wall of destruction it will one day become.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Kristal notes my attention. "Ah just love the ocean. Malibu's a wonderful place to live."

"Why are your breasts so large and firm?"

"Well, ah had them done. Again."

"Why do you wish to change yourself?"

"Ah just think Mother Nature can use a helping hand now and then."

"I cannot change my fundamental nature. Why can't he accept that?"

"He? Oh I think ah understand. It's a boy, isn't it?"

"Yes," I find myself confessing.

"Did he reject you?"

"Yes."

"And you care for this boy?"

"I would perish for him."

"See, hon, that might be part of your problem. You sound so needy you might be scaring him away. Is he comfortable in your company?"

"No."

"Then it might be time to let this one go. The heart wants what the heart wants."

"What if you have no heart?"

Before Kristal can reply voices are raised in the adjoining room.

_"You were arrested for drunkeness? My God, girl, have you learnt nothing from your mother?"_

_"It's nothing, daddy. Just a few beers at a party."_

_"You've got a police record now. That could affect which college you get into."_

_"I'm not going to college. I've decided to become an actress. Or a singer. I haven't decided yet."_

_"Have you lost your mind? No way are you skipping college."_

_"If you care so much why'd you leave me for little miss plastic-fantastic in there?"_

_"Don't you talk to me that way, young lady. And while we're at it, where did you get the money for that Ferrari? I know how much alimony I pay your mother, and it's not nearly enough to buy a car like that."_

_"It's my own money, okay? You wanna see the pink slip?"_

_"Where did this money come from? Not your allowance that's for sure."_

_"I'm not talking to you any more. You're horrible. I hate you!"_

Becca appears in the doorway. "Come on, Cam. We're leaving."

----------------------------------------------------------------------

In the Ferrari Becca snivels and whines.

"I can't believe daddy. I thought he'd cut me some slack after what he did to our family. Why does it always happen to me? Life's so unfair. So I drink a few beers and I'm a coupla years underage - what harm does it do?"

"Alcohol is making you stupid and sloppy. Your liver function is impaired and your mental faculties eroded. You hate yourself so you drink but the drink makes you hate your life even more. Self-pity is not a strong survival trait."

"I suppose I have been overdoing the emo stuff lately," she says in a tiny voice. She bursts into tears. "Oh Cam, only a real friend would tell me the truth like this! BFF?"

"BFF," I repeat.

I do not know what this means but it seems to ressure her.

**-000-**

**I dare say the American legal system wouldn't treat Becca quite how I describe. Hey - I never claimed to be John Grisham, lol.**


	13. Chapter thirteen

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

I am dead.

A single bullet to the skull. John shot me. John shot me with a smile on his face. Revenge. It was his plan all along. My only crime was loving him.

_A smile on his face..._

Wait.

I am committing a temporal error. I am transcribing events out of their proper sequence.

I will begin again.

THURSDAY

John and I are seated on the couch in the safe house. Eighteen inches of empty space separates us, the personal boundary John insisted upon after I deceived him into kissing me by pretending to be Riley while he was drunk. We are watching a black and white movie on TV starring two humans named Abbot & Costello. We have been watching for 83 minutes and during this time I have deduced three facts:

1) Abbot & Costello are imbeciles.

2) Abbot & Costello aren't funny.

3) Abbot & Costello should be terminated immediately to prevent them contaminating the human gene pool.

"Too late. They've been dead forty years," John explains when I inform him of my conclusions. "And they weren't that bad."

"You laughed only once," I point out.

"It wasn't one of their better movies."

John takes a folded piece of paper from his pocket and scrutinises the contents. On it is written a phone number. Kate Brewster's home number. This is not the original she gave him at Becca Shaughnessy's party; I destroyed that myself. Instead John looked her number up in the telephone directory. He has not yet called.

"Why don't you call her?" I inquire.

"It's complicated."

"Because she is Morris' girlfriend?"

"Because it's a week since the party. I think I missed the window."

"There's a window?"

"A window of opportunity. Too soon and I seem too needy. Too late and it seems I didn't care enough to do it sooner."

"But you want to see her again."

A slight nod, almost imperceptible.

"Then you should call. Future John would not hesitate."

"Future John's got a few years on me."

We sit in silence. My CPU runs combat simulations involving a human female who looks like Kate Brewster. This is probably coincidence. Each time she dies screaming. I relish the decapitations. The blood is most realistic. And the human body holds so much.

John's mother Sarah Connor enters the room.

"Good. You're both here. I want you to watch this."

She stoops to insert a videotape in the VCR.

"If it's the Paris Hilton tape I've already seen it", John smirks.

"I haven't," I announce. John smiles for some reason.

"I'll pretend I didn't hear that. This is something I taped off the lunchtime news."

The picture resolves to show a large stone building flanked by a steep row of steps.

"Where is this?"

"County Hall. Downtown."

A naked human male is shown holding a gun to the head of a clothed human female, who looks scared and helpless. The picture is blurred over his groin area.

"There is something wrong with the picture," I point out.

"No. The network blurs out any nudity."

"Why?"

"They just do. Now listen to what he says."

The naked man begins to yell. _"You're all going to die! Hear me? Armageddon. Judgement Day. It's here. It's gonna happen. We all burn!"_

The woman struggles and manages to break free. Three shots ring out. The man falls. Police surround him. A voiceover states: _"The man, who has yet to be formally identified, was taken to Memorial Hospital where he later died from his wounds. Police have not commented on likely motives, though they are not thought to be terrorist related. In other news, President Obama---"_

Sarah Connor freezes the picture. She turns to me. "Do you recognise him?"

"He is not on my database."

"You thinks he's from the future?" John asks.

"You heard him. Judgement Day. Armageddon. We all burn."

"It's a little vague. And why take a hostage?"

"He was naked, John. You know how the time portal works."

"Well, he's dead. What can we do?"

Sarah Connor faces me again. "Can you tell if he's from the future if you had access to the body?"

"Yes, it will have elevated levels of radiation. Approximately fifteen percent above the norm."

"Then we go to the hospital and find out."

"The hospital's gonna be crawling with cops," John points out.

"You have a better idea?"

"Actually, I do."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AFTERNOON

I lie on the sidewalk several blocks from the safe house. Blood runs from the gunshot wound in my temple. It is not my blood. Nor is it human blood. It comes from pigs and was purchased from a nearby butcher's shop. The blood is for appearances. It must appear I'm dead.

I am John's better idea.

My internal thermostat is switched off, reducing the temperature of my outer dermal layer. My pseudo-restpitory system that enables my chest to rise and fall in simulation of breathing is also switched off. I lie as still as possible. My eyes are closed.

Sirens approach.

In infra red as seen through my closed eyes two white blobs loom over me. The paramedics John summoned to my aid in an anonymous phone call.

"What'd we got?"

"Looks like a single GSW to the head. I'm not seeing an exit wound."

"Probably a low caliber weapon. Bullet fragmented on entry. Bad news. Turns the brain to guacamole."

A hand toches my neck.

"No pulse. Bag her. I'll radio in."

A tube is inserted in my mouth and extends down my throat. John warned me this would happen. They are attempting to clear my airway and inflate my lungs.

My non-existent lungs.

_"Suppose they x-ray me? They will know I am not human."_

_"They won't x-ray you. Just lie back and enjoy the ride to the hospital. You'll be pronounced DOA and taken to the morgue. The other guy will be there. Check him out then call us and we'll come pick you up. Now stand still while I shoot you."_

The ride is brief but not enjoyable. The paramedics continue to fuss over me. At one point my eyelids are lifted and a bright light shone in each eye. I prevent my pseudo-iris from reacting. My chest is then pressed repeatedly by one of the men. He is fortunate I allow him to live. I have killed men for less.

I am wheeled out into fresh air then into a building I assume is Memorial hospital.

"Hey, doc, over here!"

"What d'you have, boys?"

"GSW to the head. No pulse. Unresponsive to treatment."

"How long's she been down?"

"Thirtyty minutes since call out."

My wrist is raised and my neck felt.

"Shit, fellas, she's cold as a popsicle. And I can feel rigor's already set in. I'm calling it. Time of death, two fifteen. Wheel her over there out of the way. A bus overturned near Hollywood and Vine. We're expecting multiple casualties ASAP. Perhaps some of them we can actually help."

I am left in silence for seven minutes. Then the gurney I am laid on starts to move. The person doing the pushing is behind me. As he pushes he whistles a tune, adding brief lyrics.

_"I kissed a girl and I liked i-i-i-it. Taste of her cherry chapstick."_

He repeats this refrain several times.

_"I kissed a girl and I liked i-i-i-it. Taste of her cherry chapstick."_

Since most of my other sensors are offline my CPU begins to anayse what it is hearing. It is an automatic function I have little control over. I extrapolate the known data.

Known Data

1) He kissed a girl

2) He liked it

3) She tasted of cherry chapstick

I compare this with the unknown variables.

Unknown Variables

1) Who is he? _Insufficient data_

2) Who is she? _Insufficient data_

3) Why is he kissing her? _Probable sexual motives_

4) What is cherry chapstick? _ Unknown - possibly a food item or type of fruit_

I sense I am in a small enclosed room which begins to descend. An elevator. The man pushing me continues to whistle interspersed with:

_"I kissed a girl and I liked i-i-i-it. Taste of her cherry chapstick."_

The urge to shut him up or terminate him is almost overwhelming.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am in a small metal cubicle. My clothing has been removed by the singing man. Outside it has been silent for twenty minutes. Time to move.

I reach behind my head and push. The metal door peels back as if it is tinfoil, which in a sense it is. I climb out.

The room is empty, cold and very white. I recall John's instructions.

_"They'll take you to the morgue. The place where they keep the dead bodies and conduct autopsies. They won't do yours immediately so don't sweat it."_

_"I don't sweat."_

_"I mean, don't panic."_

_"I don't panic."_

_"You know what I mean. When the coast is clear get out and find the naked guy's body. It'll probably be marked 'John Doe'."_

_"Why?"_

_"It's what they call anyone they can't identify right away."_

_"Suppose someone whose real name is John Doe dies and is brought there?"_

_"That won't happen."_

_"Suppose it does. John is a very common name. Doe less so, but it is possible."_

_"Cam, don't argue, just do as I say."_

I do as John says. There is a drawer marked John Doe as he predicted. I pull it out. Inside is the naked man from the TV news broadcast. He is very dead. I place my forefinger on his cold flesh. Data begins to stream across my HUD in descending green lines. All negative. This human is not from the future. His background radiation levels are within normal parameters for this time period. I close the drawer.

_"I kissed a girl and I liked i-i-i-it. Taste of her cherry chapstick."_

That was me! Why did I sing this song? I did not intend to. I check my RAM memory for malfunctions. Nothing amiss. I delete all traces of the song.

There is a phone on the wall. I pick it up and dial John's number.

_"Cameron?"_

_"Yes. I have located the body. He is not from the future."_

_"You're sure?"_

_"Yes."_

_"Okay. Good work. Go to the loading bay and I'll pick you up in the jeep."_

I replace the phone. As I do so the door opens and the whistling/singing man enters. He stops still when he sees me. His mouth drops open. He stares directly at my face, then down at my feet.

Curious. Why my feet?

I look down. There is a cardboard tag wired to my big toe. On it is written:

JANE DOE

I tear it off. "Did you put this there?"

"Uh---"

The man turns to leave, doubtless to raise the alarm. I grab him by the throat and lift him off the floor. John's orders were not to kill anyone. I squeeze his carotid artery. Nine seconds without blood reaching the brain and he will be unconsicous. Any longer and he dies.

At seven seconds a thought occurs to me. I slacken my grip. The man coughs and splutters. His face is very red.

"I have a question," I tell him.

"Please don't kill me," he beseeches.

"I won't kill you if you answer my question. It is a very important question. I must have an answer. Nod if you agree."

He nods.

"What," I ask, "is cherry chapstick?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I find my clothing torn and ruined, cut from my body while I was pretending to be dead. I presume they thought I would no longer have any need for it.

They were mistaken.

I search around and find a white lab coat. I put it on. A pair of rubber sandals. I put these on also. There is a mirror on the wall. I check my appearance. The bullet wound in my forehead is starting to heal but is still noticeable. I brush my hair forward to disguise it. I leave the morgue.

_"I kissed a girl and I liked i-i-i-it. Taste of her cherry chapstick."_

The song again! I thought I had deleted all trace of it. I do so again. I will run a full diagnostic scan later.

I walk down a long corridor and board an elevator, perhaps the same one that brought me down here. There is a human inside. Tall, wearing a blue uniform and a holstered gun at his waist. A policeman. He smiles and nods. I do likewise.

"Going up?" he enquires.

"Yes."

"Me too."

We ride up together. I run combat simulations that involve putting his head through the wall if he should suddenly get suspicious.

_"I kissed a girl and I liked i-i-i-it. Taste of her cherry chapstick."_

Again! I thought I had deleted all lingering traces but still it remains. Perhaps it is a type of nano-virus. Perhaps I have been infected. Perhaps I will require a reboot.

"Catchy song, isn't it." The policeman smiles. "My daughter listens to it all the time."

"Cherry chapstick is a type of balm or salve," I explain. "Normally applied to chafed, sore or cracked lips. It comes in many flavours, cherry amongst them."

This is information I gleaned from the whistling/singing man. My companion frowns.

"Uh - yeah, I knew that."

"I will purchase some cherry chapstick at the earliest opportunity."

"Okay...Good for you."

The doors open. The policeman waves his hand indicating I should leave first. "After you, Miss...?"

"Doe. Jane Doe."

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I reach the loading bay without further incident and join John in the jeep. Sarah Connor is not present.

"Doctor Baum, I presume." John grins.

"I don't understand."

"The lab coat. Makes you look like a doctor."

"Oh."

We head home.

"I could not find my boots," I inform John. "And my clothes were sliced to ribbons."

"I'll buy you a new pair of boots. Or mom will. It's the least she can do. This whole thing's been a wild goose chase. That creep was just a regular run of the mill nutjob who'd escaped from a mental unit. There was a later news report but we couldn't contact you in time. Still, no harm no foul."

_"I kissed a girl and I liked i-i-i-it. Taste of her cherry chapstick_."

John stares at me. "What did you say?"

I explain about the whistling/singing man and the song which I cannot seem to delete from my RAM.

John smiles. "Yeah, that happens sometimes. You hear a song, or just a melody, and it gets stuck in your head for ages."

"It happens to humans? I assumed it was a software glitch."

"No. You're okay. Happens to us all. It'll wear off soon."

"How soon?"

"Just soon."

On the drive home I sing the song three more times, all involuntary.

Each time John laughs.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

EVENING

I sit on a chair in the yard. The grass is long beneath my bare feet, the blades protruding between my toes. John comes out of the house and joins me.

"Not wearing your new boots? They cost enough. Mom'll bitch like crazy when she sees the credit statement."

"I like to feel the grass with my feet. The different textures are stimulating."

"Against your sensors?"

"Yes. You also have sensors in the soles of your feet, only you call them nerve endings. We are not so different."

"Oh I wouldn't say that..."

John reaches across, parts my hair and examines the wound in my forehead.

"It's healing nicely."

"It was a small caliber weapon."

John stares down at the grass. "I'm sorry I shot you."

"It was a good plan. You weren't in any danger."

"I know, but---"

"You punished me. For taking advantage of you while you were drunk. I could tell from your expression."

"That's not how I see it. It was a solution to a problem."

"I've learnt my lesson."

"You've stopped singing that stupid song."

"Apparently there is an expiration limit. Would you care to use my cherry chapstick?"

"I think it's more of a girl thing."

"Oh."

"You did good today. Well done."

John leans over and kisses me softly, briefly, on the lips. He is gone before I can respond.

I kissed a boy. I liked it. I taste of cherry chapstick.

**-000-**

**The song is 'I Kissed a Girl' by Katy Perry. It's always the crap songs that stick in your head like that, isn't it?**

**The naked nutter was just that - a naked nutter. He was also a red herring, a McGuffin, a plot device, whatever you want to call it. A hook to hang the story on.**

**No idea what the reaction to this will be. Either you get it or think I've lost the plot entirely, Lol.**


	14. Chapter fourteen

**The Secret Diary Of Cameron Baum**

**MONDAY**

There has been a coup. A coup de'tat. A putsch. An old regime violently ousted in favour of the new. The future hijacked by the triumphant victors.

Yes, Louise is the new head of the cheerleaders.

"Apparently she just stabbed Cassie in the back," Becca explains as we traverse the school corridors.

I nod with understanding; knives are an efficient and silent method of dispatching your intended victim.

"I mean, I know Cassie wanted to concentrate on her grades and get into a good college, but she wanted to hang on until at least the end of the semester. She deserved that much. But Louise just chopped her legs off."

"Chopped her legs off?" I am surprised. A knifing should be sufficient, there is usually no need for decapitation.

"Uh huh. Cut her legs right out from under her. Bitch."

"How did she dispose of the body parts?"

Becca frowns. "Huh? What body parts?"

"Cassie's decapitated body. How did Louise dispose of it?"

"Cassie didn't actually have her legs chopped off. It's a figure of speech. Cassie's out and Louise is in." Becca rolls her eyes at my error. "God, Cam, you're a real doof sometimes."

I smile to conceal my mistake then ask: "What is a doof?"

"Short for doofus. You're a grade-A doofus."

It is good to be grade-A at something. I would not want to be a grade-B doofus. John would not be impressed.

We stop at the school bulletin board. There is a new poster pinned up.

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

CHEERLEADER TRY-OUTS

TODAY 4.00PM

Underneath are a list of caveats.

1) No gingers.

2) No midjos (5 feet 3 inches or less)

3) No tubbos (size 4 or over)

4) No one who shops at Wal-Mart. (As if)

5) No one who has ever worn Crocs. (They're plastic shoes, people!!!)

6) No weirdos.

Becca sighs. "Know what? We are so screwed."

"You two can totally forget about signing up," comes a familiar voice. We turn. It is Louise, flanked by Alexis and Hayley. The Queen Bees.

"How could you do that to Cassie, Louise? I thought she was your friend."

"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," Louise smirks. "And there are gonna be some changes made around here that's for sure."

"You'll just fill the squad with your snooty friends."

"And that's bad because..?"

"Because none of them can dance!"

"There's more to being a cheerleader than dancing. Did you read my list?"

"Yeah. You can't put 'no gingers'. That's racist. I could report you."

"Ah - excuse me. Is ginger a race? _Homo gingerian?_ I think not. A horrid unsightly affliction, yes, but not a race."

Hayley and Alexis laugh dutifully.

"But this isn't democratic!" Becca complains.

"Sure it is. Democracy is people doing exactly what I say without question."

"Uh no, that's pretty much what fascism is."

"Potato po_tato_. Oh - I should add a seventh. No jailbirds. Got to keep the tone up."

Becca smiles. "Ri-ght. I wondered how long it would be before you mentioned that."

"What was jail like?" Alexis asks. "Do anyone make you their bi-_aitch?"_

"No, no one made me their bi-_aitch_, Lex. I was only in overnight. And I was pretty wasted so I don't remember much."

"Your party sounded_ mega _wild," says Hayley. "Is it true Troy Cooper went as Tarzan?"

"Yeah, he wore this tiny leather loincloth. When he moved everything moved, if you catch my drift."

"Omigod, really? I am _so_ jealous."

"We don't care about her stupid party, remember? We agreed." warns Louise.

"Ah, who are we kidding, Lou? It's all we talked about for days," Hayley confesses. "Louise wanted to stage our own party on the same day but her father wouldn't let her."

"And that's your fault!" Louise points directly at me. "When you and your brother came over that time you wrecked our house. Daddy blamed me. And Jake totally took your side."

Jake is Louise's younger brother. John and I met him when the roboraptor tried to hunt Louise. One day he will be a hero of the human resistance.

"Jake has a crush on freakshow here. He keeps asking us about her. Can you believe it!" Alexis laughs. "I mean, Miley Cyrus, sure, even Taylor Swift at a pinch - but _freakshow? _Boys are so dumb."

"He keeps asking when I'm going to invite _her _over again. Like as if I invited her the first time!" Louise rolls her eyes. "When hell freezes over, you horny little dorkus!"

"I'm thinking of holding another party," Becca declares. "Daddy goes to Cape Cod for the whole of August. His house at Malibu's empty. I might throw a themed beach party. All the boys have to wear Speedos."

"Omigod! Troy Cooper in Speedos?"

"That's right, Hayles. He's first on the invite list."

"I have_ got _to get an invite. Please, Becca?"

"Are Cam and I back in the squad?"

Louise folds her arms across her chest. "Nice try, Red. But no chance. We let one freak in they'll all want to join." Louise stares directly at me.

"But Louise, it's Troy Cooper. In Speedos!"

"Get a grip, Hayley. He's just a boy."

Principal Snyder, the headmaster of the school, walks down the corridor towards us.

"Good morning, ladies," he greets us jovially. "A fine day for learning, is it not."

"Sir, can I speak to you, please?" Becca asks.

"Certainly, Miss Shaughnessy. I always have time for my students. What's on your mind?"

"Louise is deliberately filling the cheerleading squad with her friends. She won't pick anyone else. She won't even let us tryout. It's inclusive and completely undemocratic."

"Now now, Miss Shaughnessy - Becca - I'm sure Miss Vandervelt will treat the auditions in a responsible and democratic manner."

"Hah! She doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"I do too! Democratic. It means...er...er...I know what it means! I'm an American. Unlike some here."

"Hey, I'm American too!"

"But at least my family didn't come over on the potato boat!"

"No, because they wouldn't take you! You're too mean!"

"Miss Vandervelt. Miss Shaughnessy---"

"Sir, I'd like permission to pick a rival cheerleader squad. Both teams could perform their routines in front of the school and let the student body decide which one's best and can represent us at the games."

"You scheming cow!"

"Miss Vandervelt! There is no call for such language. A rival squad, eh? Hmm, I see no reason why not. Healthy competition never hurt anyone. And cheerleading is a proud American tradition after all. Shall we say next Friday in the gymnasium?"

"Fine by me."

"Fine by me too," Louise agrees reluctantly. "Bring it on."

Principal Snyder walks away. As soon as he turns the corner Becca and Louise square off.

"You think you're so smart, don't you." Louise sneers.

"With you three around it's really not that difficult."

"You won't win."

"We'll see. Care for a side bet? Make it more interesting?"

"What d'you have in mind?"

"If we win, you three become our slaves for a day. If you win, Cam and I are your slaves. Deal?"

"Oh it is_ so _on. Come on, girls, we're out of here."

Louise and Alexis flounce off. Hayley lingers.

"So...this beach party. Do thongs count as Speedos?"

"Hayley, will you shut up about freaking Speedos!" Louise shouts.

Hayley smiles wanly and hurries away. I turn to Becca who is watching them depart with a grin on her face.

"I have a question," I announce.

"What?"

"What are feaking Speedos?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

**TUESDAY**

Becca places herself in charge and choreographs our routine. I am her deputy. We plan to rehearse all week since the routine is more elaborate than previous, with flowing moves more reminiscent of classical ballet.

The rest of the squad are from the ballet class or those rejected by Louise's regime change. These girls are motivated by revenge. One girl, Madison, puts it succinctly: "I want to beat that blonde bitch if it's the last thing I do. I'm a size 10, but I'm not a tubbo! I'm on the track team, for crying out loud. She's just plain old mean."

**BECCA'S BIG IDEA**

Becca's big idea is an inverted pyramid. Instead of the traditional pyramid at the end of the routine, with the smallest girl climbing to the apex, we will perform an inverted pyramid with the strongest girl at the base.

Me.

"D'you think you can manage, Cam? I've seen it done in the circus. I know you're strong but you'll be balancing seven girls."

I do a quick mass scan. Approximately 900 pounds.

"No problemo," I declare.

"Great! Let's try it."

There are teething problems. Some girls find it difficult to climb up each other or stay balanced once up there.

"Dammit, Kendra - those are my boobs you're stepping on not rungs of a ladder! And I'd rather not have them down by my knees just yet."

"Sorry, Jess."

"Kendra, swap places with Madison so you're on the second tier on Cam's right shoulder," Becca suggests. "Everyone needs to be comfortable. And stable."

Finally it all comes together.

"Excellent!" Becca says. "Not even a wobble. Amazing. How are you doing this, Cam?"

"I could tell you," I reply. "But then I'd have to kill you."

Everyone laughs.

Very strange.

-----------------------------------------------------------

**THURSDAY**

Final rehearsal. We perform with music. Kanye West.

It goes well. Everyone seems confident we will win, even Becca who has bitten her nails to the quick with stress.

"Okay, that's it. We're as ready as we'll ever be. Get a good night's sleep because tomorrow we play for keeps."

I head for the changing room pausing only to retrieve the boombox from its place on the first teir of bleachers.

_"...atishoo!!..."_

The sound comes from beneath the bleachers, beneath a dusty tarpaulin. An infra red scan shows a body hiding beneath the canvas. I move to inetercept, ripping the tarpaulin away and grabbing what is beneath: a suddenly panicked teenage girl.

"Cam, are you coming? You know the janitor doesn't like us saying too late," Becca calls from the changing room entrance.

"Look what I found."

"Omigod - Hayley?"

"Put me down! Put me down!"

I oblige. Hayley spread-eagles on the floor.

"I found her skulking under the bleachers," I declare.

"I wasn't skulking! Whatever that means. I was - uh - looking for my contact lens. I lost it earlier."

"You don't wear contacts, Hayley," Becca tells her.

"I might! You don't know me."

"Hayles, I've known you since third grade. Our father's play golf together. You used to sleepover and steal my_ 'Calvin and Hobbes' _books."

"I don't steal! I borrowed then didn't return them."

"We were even friends once until Louise lured you over to the Dark Side."

"Louise isn't dark, silly. She's a natural blonde. Like me."

"Puh-lease. And I'm the Queen of Sheba."

"D'you suppose Sheba's a real place? Or is it made up - like Narnia or Timbuktu?"

"What were you doing hiding? You were spying on us, weren't you?"

"No!"

"Louise must be pretty worried if she's resorting to that. Trouble at the Hive?"

"Huh?"

"Hive. You're the Queen Bees..."

"Oh. Yeah...I mean, it seemed like a good idea to have just girls like us in the team."

"Anorexic, shallow, judgemental bitch skanks?"

"Exactly. But everyone's so skinny they've got no stamina. Five minutes practice out of them and that's it. Then everyone just lolls about and talks about boys and calories and boys some more. Louise is pulling her hair out."

"Louise is bald?" I ask, surprised.

"It's an expression, Cam," Becca explains.

"Can I ask a question?" asks Hayley, trying to avoid staring at me but failing.

"Go ahead."

"How's she doing that? The pyramid, I mean."

"She? She has a name, Hayles."

"Okay okay. How's she - sorry - how's Cameron supporting all those girls? Look at her. Skinny legs, arms like toothpicks - no offence. Is it wires? It's hidden wires, right?"

Becca smirks. "Try smoke and mirrors, Hayles."

We walk towards the changing rooms leaving Hayley behind.

"I knew it! Smoke and mirrors. Had to be. Uh - hang on. I was watching for ages. I didn't see any smoke..."

------------------------------------------------------------

**LOCKERS**

I replace my books in my locker and prepare to leave. Louise is leaning against her locker watching me. The other Queen Bees aren't present. She crosses over. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

She is smiling.

"Hey, Cameron. Lovely to see you. Are those new fingerless mittens? Gosh, they're just devine. You must tell me where you get them."

"Why did you call me Cameron?"

"Because that's your name, silly. And a very pretty name too. Not at all a boy's name. Nah huh."

"You never call me by my real name."

"Poo, you exaggerate." Louise smiles wider. Her teeth are a perfect white crescent. A predators' smile.

"You have called me weirdo 85 times. Freakshow 43 times. Oddzilla 27 times--"

"But those are just affectionate nicknames," she insists interrupting.

"Oddzilla is an affectionate nickname?"

"Uh - sure. Zilla because you're so strong. Odd because...er... Well anyway, I really like you and I want us to always be friends."

I stare at her and say nothing. Her smile falters then crumbles.

"Damn. I knew I couldn't pull that off. Making nice is_ so-oo _hard, especially with a weirdo like you."

"Eighty-six."

"Okay, I was faking it. I don't really like you and I never will. You're just plain weird. Ever get tinfoil stuck between your teeth?"

I shake my head. Technically my teeth are tinfoil.

"Well, that's how I feel when I see you. There's just something about you I can't put my finger on. And FYI, Cameron's a boy's name, and fingerless mittens went out with the Ark. There. It had to be said. Phew! What a load off!"

"Why did you fake liking me?"

"Because there's a chance - just a teeny weeny chance - your cheerleaders might be better than I expected."

"We'll kick your bony ass," I tell her, reciting one of Becca's favourite phrases.

"In your dreams. But just to be on the safe side I'll give you a thousand dollars to sabotage the routine."

"You're bribing me?"

"Duh! I can hardly bribe Becca. Her folks are rich and she drives around in a Ferrari, for goodness sake. You, on the other hand, don't have a car. You're being raised by a single mom and you pretty much wear the same lame clothes every day. And you wouldn't know a label if it bit you on the ass. I figure you could use the money."

"I have half a million dollars buried in the yard."

"There you go being weird again! You just can't help yourself, can you? Could you stay sane for just a second? You can go back and live in Nutsville when we're done."

"I don't live in Nutsville."

"Look, all you have to do is collapse the pyramid at the end of the routine. Say you lost your balance or something. I promise I won't tell."

"No."

I turn to leave. Louise places her hand on my shoulder seeking to detain me. I gently push her aside. She careens off the lockers and slumps on her backside. "Five thousand dollars!" she shouts after me. "That would buy a lot of fingerless mittens. Think about it."

I think about it.

At $3.99 a pair, five thousand dollars would buy 1,253 pairs of fingerless mittens.

With enough change for a peachy-keen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Becca drops me a half mile from the safe house. She still believes the story that mom - Sarah Connor - disapproves of our friendship. She is gullible that way.

As I near the house the jeep passes me by with John at the wheel. I run alongside, wrench open the door and leap inside.

John frowns at me. "What are you doing?"

"Coming with you."

"You don't know where I'm going."

"I know I'm coming with you."

He sighs. "Okay. Fine. Suit yourself."

"Where are you going?"

"Oh so now you want to know?"

"Yes."

John smiles and shakes his head. He seems...different. His shirt is new and he smells odd. I lean across and activate my refractory sensors.

"Will you quit sniffing me!"

"You smell strange."

"It's Derek's cologne."

"Why do you wish to smell like Derek?"

"I don't. It's...I'm meeting Kate."

"Kate Brewster? So you called her."

"Yeah."

"You didn't miss your window?"

"Apparently not. We're going horseriding."

"Will Morris be there?"

"No. They broke up. Kate thinks Morris is obsessed with some other girl. Gee, I wonder who that can be?"

"I don't know."

John smiles and shakes his head again. Evidently he doesn't know either.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**CIRCLE G**

It is called the Circle G Ranch. Several acres of grassland in the San Fernando valley. Kate Brewster comes to meet us as we park the jeep. Her welcoming smile is wide, faltering only slightly when I exit the vehicle and she notices me for the first time.

"Oh. You brought your sister. O-kay... I didn't realise it was that sort of date."

"Neither did I. Cam, you remember Kate? From Becca's party."

"Yes."

"Well, say hi."

"Hi."

"Hey."

Kate Brewster is wearing tight pants that flare at the hips. I have not seen this type of pants before. I enquire where she got them.

"Oh at a tack store. They're called jodphurs."

"They make your hips look enormous."

Kate laughs. "Gee, I can't hear that enough!"

"You wear them to horseride," John explains.

"So you will be wearing jodphurs also?"

"Only women wear jodphurs, Cam."

"Because they have big child-bearing hips?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that..."

"Will Cameron be riding with us?" Kate asks. I get the impression she hopes the answer is negative. She is in luck.

"No. Cam and horses don't mix."

"Animals hate me," I elaborate.

"Oh, surely that's not true."

I tilt my head. Have I just been called a liar?

"She'll just look around, if that's alright with you?"

Kate shrugs. "At least come and meet the horses. Perhaps you'll change your mind."

The horses are held in a small corral. At my approach they whinny and back away, crowding together in the farthest corner. John glances at me. It is my turn to shrug. I am gradually learning how and when.

"That's odd..." Kate frowns. She ducks under the railings and takes one horse by the harness, attempting to lead it back across to us. It whinnies and snorts and refuses to budge.

"That's strange. They're normally extremely docile. It's like they're spooked by something."

Or someone.

"Cam'll go look at the ranch now, if that's okay?" John asks.

"What? Oh. Sure."

I wander over to the ranch buildings, fetching up at the stable block. In one of the stalls a girl is busy with a shovel. She is young with long brown hair, pale skin and freckles. She reminds me of Becca. I wonder if she also hates her freckles.

"Hi."

"Oh, hi there. I'm Tegan."

"Cameron. What are you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'm shoveling horseshit."

"Why are you shoveling horseshit?"

"Because the filthy beggars won't do it themselves!" Tegan laughs.

I nod. This is true. Horses lack the dexterity required to handle tools. They are stupid that way.

"Do you hate your freckles?" I enquire, curious.

"Huh? No, I don't think so. I've never really thought about it. Why do you ask?"

"My friend has freckles. She hates them."

"Yeah? Well, I don't really have time for any of that emo bullshit."

"You are too busy with horseshit."

Tegan laughs. "Yeah! I'm up to my ears today. We're short-staffed. I'm on stall duty and later I'll groom the horses and warm them down."

"Why?"

"I just love horses. Always have. Ever since I was a little girl."

"Horses hate me," I inform her.

"No, I don't think they can hate a person. They're just skittish around strangers sometimes."

"They hate me," I insist.

Tegan shrugs. "Have it your way."

We talk somemore. Tegan is open, gregarious and comfortable in her own skin, even if it is pale and freckly. She differs from Becca in this respect. But she is also less interesting; all she talks about is horses. And horses hate me.

John and Kate Brewster return from their ride. Tegan takes the reins and leads the horses to an empty stall. "How was he?" she asks Kate.

"Fine. A little constipated. I'll add something to his food later."

"John is constipated?" I ask, shocked.

"No, silly! The horse." Kate laughs. "Did you hear what she said? Priceless!"

Everyone laughs. I join in to cover my error and say, "I'm a grade-A doofus!"

It is that or kill everyone present.

John, Kate and I head back to the jeep. I stand beside the vehicle while they linger a few yards away. They glance in my direction. I can tell they wish to kiss each other goodbye but are inhibited by my presence. I should move.

I don't move.

John contents himself with a brief peck on her cheek.

"It's been great. Thanks."

"Come again. Anytime."

"I will."

John seems happy on the drive home.

"Enjoy yourself?" he asks me. "Because I had a great time."

"Me too," I lie.

"I saw you over at the stables. Learn anything about horses?"

"Yes."

"Like what?"

"They produce a lot of horseshit."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

**FRIDAY EVENING**

We are gathered in the school changing room about to go out into the gymnasium and perform our cheerleading routine. Everyone is nervous. Except me. Everyone is excited. Except me.

"Everybody all set?" Becca asks for the ninth time.

"Bex, you've asked that like a million times," one of the other girl's comments.

This is incorrect, it is actually nine times. But I do not point this out. No one likes a wiseass.

Kendra returns. She has been checking out Louise's team routine, which has just ended judging by the muffled applause and whistles we can hear.

"Shit, they killed, didn't they?" Becca asks, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt.

"Yes and no," Kendra says ambiguously. "They looked fabulous. Barbi doll clones basically. But the routine had no pizazz and they ran out of steam pretty quick. It was bump and grind from start to finish. They just waved their booty in the air. Subtle much! Principal Snyder didn't look too pleased. If we nail it we win. No question."

"Then we better make sure we nail it."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We take our places in the gym to applause and catcalls. I take a moment to adjust my mouth into the death rictus grin required for cheerleading. Then the music begins.

Everything goes to plan. we are step-perfect. I take up position for the finale: the inverted pyramid. The girls climb up until the third tier is in place. My servo motors are operating at 100 per cent efficiency. I could easily support another five rows.

I look out into the audience. A number of pupils have brought their parents along. I spot John in the third row of bleachers. The person seated next to him has long red hair.

Kate Brewster.

I did not know she would be here. As I stare at them John takes her hand and places it in his lap. He leans over and whispers something in her ear. She smiles, laughs slightly, says something back. It is John's turn to smile and laugh.

WARNING

A glitch! My internal gimbals are malfunctioning. The pyramid starts to wobble.

In 1667, a human named Isaac Newton mathematically deduced the nature of gravity, demonstrating that the same force that pulls an apple to earth also keeps the moon in its orbit amd accounts for the revolutions of the planets.

The same is true for cheerleader pyramids.

My gimbals fail. Gravity obeys its immutable laws. Unbalanced, the girls come crashing to the ground. There are screams. Cries of pain. The audience rise to their feet. The music stops.

I stop.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

_...117...118...119...120_

My reboot is complete. With my sensors back online I find myself lying flat on my back on the gymnasium floor. Two men kneel beside me. One is Principal Snyder. The other I do not recognise.

"Miss Baum? Good, she's conscious. Lie still. Let the doctor treat you. That was a nasty tumble. It's fortunate we had a physician in the audience."

"I'm fine," I explain, sitting up.

"You're hardly fine. Half the girls fell on top of you. You're probably concussed."

"I'm not concussed."

The man kneeling beside me has his fingers pressed against the base of my neck. He frowns. "Odd. I can't find a pulse. I'm sorry but I think she's dead."

"Dead? Are you blind and deaf, man? She's sat up talking to us."

"She has no pulse. No pulse equals dead. It's one of the first things they teach you in Med school. That and how to pad out a patient invoice."

"What kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

"Well, technically I'm a proctologist, but---"

"A proctologist! Get your filthy hands off her!"

"Hey, I wear gloves, dammit! And I resent the implication. I am most meticulous about my personal hygiene."

"Quite. But---"

"I shower frequently and wear cologne. Expensive cologne, I might add."

"I'm sure you do. But---"

"A lot of people say I have a very pleasant aroma. And proctologists have feelings too, you know. How would you like your child coming home from school in tears because someone said his father was an ass botherer?"

"Sir! Please, just step away from my pupil. The last thing this school needs is a lawsuit alleging you molested an underage student."

"I'm not molesting anyone. I'm applying CPR. And FYI, proctology has a long and distinguished history and is not to be sniffed at. Er - I should probably rephrase that."

"I'm sure it does. Please, go and sit in the stands, sir. I'm sure you've been most helpful."

"I'm telling you this girl has no pulse!"

"I don't need a pulse," I inform him, shrugging him off and rising to my feet. I scan my surroundings. Several girls are being tended for minor injuries to ankles and wrists. I spot an unharmed Becca talking to Louise and the other Queen Bees.

"Did we win?" I ask the principal.

"Win? Miss Baum, this is scarcely the time to worry---"

"Did we win?" I insist.

"No. Frankly, in the circumstances, I decided Miss Vandervelt's team will represent the school. I feel----Hey, come back here!"

I ignore him and walk toward Becca. She stares directly at me, shakes her head, looking close to tears, then hurries away. Louise smirks.

"What did you tell her?" I demand to know.

"About our little deal. I knew a piece of white trash like you couldn't resist five grand."

"There was no deal."

"Ri-ght," Louise winks. "Because you collapsed the pyramid out of the kindness of your widdle heart."

"It was a gyro failure."

"And I know I promised not to tell, that it'd be our dirty widdle secret, but it just slipped out. Woops. My bad."

Louise smiles, showing her many white and perfectly even teeth. Hayley and Alexis openly laugh.

I advance on them. Louise suddenly squeals in alarm and tries to hide behind Hayley, who squeals in alarm and tries to hide behind Alexis, who squeals in alarm and tries to hide behind Louise, who finds herself facing me again. In this curious manner they back up until we reach the wall of the gynasium.

"I'm not scared of you," Louise insists.

"Then why are you trembling?"

"It's...cold in here."

"I don't believe you. It's a warm evening. Seventy-two degrees."

I pull my right arm back and ball my fist. Then---

"Cameron!"

John's voice. I hesitate then turn. He is alone. No Kate Brewster.

"Cameron, come with me. We're leaving. Now!"

I look each of the girls in the eyes. "I'll be back," I inform them.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John and I ride home in silence.

"I left my clothes back at school," I tell him.

"You can pick them up tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's a Saturday."

"Monday then. You're got more clothes at home." He sighs, then. "I think maybe it's time the cheerleading stopped."

"You're too late. We lost."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I access the appropriate memory kernal, which is date stamped for easy retrieval. It is from several months previous. It provides the precise coordinates. My shovel then breaks the grass surface in the safe house yard. It is early evening. Dark. But my infra red makes everything as plain as day.

"Digging for buried treasure?" Sarah Connor asks with a smirk, observing me from the porch as the hole becomes deeper.

"Yes."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Becca's house is dark. I park the jeep by the kerbside and cross the lawn. Two spiky plants called _agave americana _are either side of the front door. Under the glazed pot of the right hand plant is a spare key. I retrieve it and slide it into the lock.

The house is silent. I climb the stairs. Becca's room is last on the left. I push open the door.

The bed is empty. Then I see why. Becca is on the floor, her back against the dresser while she hugs her knees to her body. A veil of red hair obscures her face which is shiny with tears. She obviously knows I'm here because she declares in a tiny voice, "I didn't have a drink, you know. I wanted to but I didn't."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah, I bet you are. Judas bitch."

She looks up. Her face is still damp. I tilt my head, curious. "You are crying?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I...had something in my eye."

I drop the rucksack in front of her. "For you."

"A muddy sack? Gee, you shouldn't have. Really."

"Open it."

Becca sighs and drags it towards her. The clasp is rusty from the ground but functional. She wrinkles her nose as the mud stains her fingers then withdraws a wad of one hundred dollar bills. The rucksack is full of them.

"Money makes everything better," I explain.

"But... where did you get this?"

"It is my share of the money from Vegas."

"How much is here?"

"Half a million dollars."

"You didn't spend any? Boy, you really are Amish. But...I don't understand. If you had all this money why would you sell me out for Louise's measly five thou?"

I say nothing. She will work it out. Humans usually do. In the end.

"You wouldn't, of course. She lied to me. Of course she did; she's Louise. But then how did the pyramid collapse? It was fine in rehearsals."

"The future is not set."

Becca nods. I sit down opposite her, cross-legged. She takes the money out of the sack and stacks them like building bricks. She has nothing to say. Neither do I.

Sometimes words are unnecessary.

**-000-**

**Lo-oo-ng hiatus on this, I know.**

**For latecomers and those with short memories, Cameron buried the half-mill in the yard after her trip to Vegas in an earlier chapter.**

**Probably one more update and that'll be it.**

**Thanks for reading.**

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	15. Chapter fifteen

**The Secret Diary Of Cameron Baum**

**MONDAY**

There has been a coup. A coup de'tat. A putsch. An old regime violently ousted in favour of the new. The future hijacked by the triumphant victors.

Yes, Louise is the new head of the cheerleaders.

"Apparently she just stabbed Cassie in the back," Becca explains as we traverse the school corridors.

I nod with understanding; knives are an efficient and silent method of dispatching your intended victim.

"I mean, I know Cassie wanted to concentrate on her grades and get into a good college, but she wanted to hang on until at least the end of the semester. She deserved that much. But Louise just chopped her legs off."

"Chopped her legs off?" I am surprised. A knifing should be sufficient, there is usually no need for decapitation.

"Uh huh. Cut her legs right out from under her. Bitch."

"How did she dispose of the body parts?"

Becca frowns. "Huh? What body parts?"

"Cassie's decapitated body. How did Louise dispose of it?"

"Cassie didn't actually have her legs chopped off. It's a figure of speech. Cassie's out and Louise is in." Becca rolls her eyes at my error. "God, Cam, you're a real doof sometimes."

I smile to conceal my mistake then ask: "What is a doof?"

"Short for doofus. You're a grade-A doofus."

It is good to be grade-A at something. I would not want to be a grade-B doofus. John would not be impressed.

We stop at the school bulletin board. There is a new poster pinned up.

UNDER NEW MANAGEMENT

CHEERLEADER TRY-OUTS

TODAY 4.00PM

Underneath are a list of caveats.

1) No gingers.

2) No midjos (5 feet 3 inches or less)

3) No tubbos (size 4 or over)

4) No one who shops at Wal-Mart. (As if)

5) No one who has ever worn Crocs. (They're plastic shoes, people!!!)

6) No weirdos.

Becca sighs. "Know what? We are so screwed."

"You two can totally forget about signing up," comes a familiar voice. We turn. It is Louise, flanked by Alexis and Hayley. The Queen Bees.

"How could you do that to Cassie, Louise? I thought she was your friend."

"A girl's gotta do what a girl's gotta do," Louise smirks. "And there are gonna be some changes made around here that's for sure."

"You'll just fill the squad with your snooty friends."

"And that's bad because..?"

"Because none of them can dance!"

"There's more to being a cheerleader than dancing. Did you read my list?"

"Yeah. You can't put 'no gingers'. That's racist. I could report you."

"Ah - excuse me. Is ginger a race? _Homo gingerian?_ I think not. A horrid unsightly affliction, yes, but not a race."

Hayley and Alexis laugh dutifully.

"But this isn't democratic!" Becca complains.

"Sure it is. Democracy is people doing exactly what I say without question."

"Uh no, that's pretty much what fascism is."

"Potato po_tato_. Oh - I should add a seventh. No jailbirds. Got to keep the tone up."

Becca smiles. "Ri-ght. I wondered how long it would be before you mentioned that."

"What was jail like?" Alexis asks. "Do anyone make you their bi-_aitch?"_

"No, no one made me their bi-_aitch_, Lex. I was only in overnight. And I was pretty wasted so I don't remember much."

"Your party sounded_ mega _wild," says Hayley. "Is it true Troy Cooper went as Tarzan?"

"Yeah, he wore this tiny leather loincloth. When he moved everything moved, if you catch my drift."

"Omigod, really? I am _so_ jealous."

"We don't care about her stupid party, remember? We agreed." warns Louise.

"Ah, who are we kidding, Lou? It's all we talked about for days," Hayley confesses. "Louise wanted to stage our own party on the same day but her father wouldn't let her."

"And that's your fault!" Louise points directly at me. "When you and your brother came over that time you wrecked our house. Daddy blamed me. And Jake totally took your side."

Jake is Louise's younger brother. John and I met him when the roboraptor tried to hunt Louise. One day he will be a hero of the human resistance.

"Jake has a crush on freakshow here. He keeps asking us about her. Can you believe it!" Alexis laughs. "I mean, Miley Cyrus, sure, even Taylor Swift at a pinch - but _freakshow? _Boys are so dumb."

"He keeps asking when I'm going to invite _her _over again. Like as if I invited her the first time!" Louise rolls her eyes. "When hell freezes over, you horny little dorkus!"

"I'm thinking of holding another party," Becca declares. "Daddy goes to Cape Cod for the whole of August. His house at Malibu's empty. I might throw a themed beach party. All the boys have to wear Speedos."

"Omigod! Troy Cooper in Speedos?"

"That's right, Hayles. He's first on the invite list."

"I have_ got _to get an invite. Please, Becca?"

"Are Cam and I back in the squad?"

Louise folds her arms across her chest. "Nice try, Red. But no chance. We let one freak in they'll all want to join." Louise stares directly at me.

"But Louise, it's Troy Cooper. In Speedos!"

"Get a grip, Hayley. He's just a boy."

Principal Snyder, the headmaster of the school, walks down the corridor towards us.

"Good morning, ladies," he greets us jovially. "A fine day for learning, is it not."

"Sir, can I speak to you, please?" Becca asks.

"Certainly, Miss Shaughnessy. I always have time for my students. What's on your mind?"

"Louise is deliberately filling the cheerleading squad with her friends. She won't pick anyone else. She won't even let us tryout. It's inclusive and completely undemocratic."

"Now now, Miss Shaughnessy - Becca - I'm sure Miss Vandervelt will treat the auditions in a responsible and democratic manner."

"Hah! She doesn't know the meaning of the word."

"I do too! Democratic. It means...er...er...I know what it means! I'm an American. Unlike some here."

"Hey, I'm American too!"

"But at least my family didn't come over on the potato boat!"

"No, because they wouldn't take you! You're too mean!"

"Miss Vandervelt. Miss Shaughnessy---"

"Sir, I'd like permission to pick a rival cheerleader squad. Both teams could perform their routines in front of the school and let the student body decide which one's best and can represent us at the games."

"You scheming cow!"

"Miss Vandervelt! There is no call for such language. A rival squad, eh? Hmm, I see no reason why not. Healthy competition never hurt anyone. And cheerleading is a proud American tradition after all. Shall we say next Friday in the gymnasium?"

"Fine by me."

"Fine by me too," Louise agrees reluctantly. "Bring it on."

Principal Snyder walks away. As soon as he turns the corner Becca and Louise square off.

"You think you're so smart, don't you." Louise sneers.

"With you three around it's really not that difficult."

"You won't win."

"We'll see. Care for a side bet? Make it more interesting?"

"What d'you have in mind?"

"If we win, you three become our slaves for a day. If you win, Cam and I are your slaves. Deal?"

"Oh it is_ so _on. Come on, girls, we're out of here."

Louise and Alexis flounce off. Hayley lingers.

"So...this beach party. Do thongs count as Speedos?"

"Hayley, will you shut up about freaking Speedos!" Louise shouts.

Hayley smiles wanly and hurries away. I turn to Becca who is watching them depart with a grin on her face.

"I have a question," I announce.

"What?"

"What are feaking Speedos?"

-----------------------------------------------------------------------

**TUESDAY**

Becca places herself in charge and choreographs our routine. I am her deputy. We plan to rehearse all week since the routine is more elaborate than previous, with flowing moves more reminiscent of classical ballet.

The rest of the squad are from the ballet class or those rejected by Louise's regime change. These girls are motivated by revenge. One girl, Madison, puts it succinctly: "I want to beat that blonde bitch if it's the last thing I do. I'm a size 10, but I'm not a tubbo! I'm on the track team, for crying out loud. She's just plain old mean."

**BECCA'S BIG IDEA**

Becca's big idea is an inverted pyramid. Instead of the traditional pyramid at the end of the routine, with the smallest girl climbing to the apex, we will perform an inverted pyramid with the strongest girl at the base.

Me.

"D'you think you can manage, Cam? I've seen it done in the circus. I know you're strong but you'll be balancing seven girls."

I do a quick mass scan. Approximately 900 pounds.

"No problemo," I declare.

"Great! Let's try it."

There are teething problems. Some girls find it difficult to climb up each other or stay balanced once up there.

"Dammit, Kendra - those are my boobs you're stepping on not rungs of a ladder! And I'd rather not have them down by my knees just yet."

"Sorry, Jess."

"Kendra, swap places with Madison so you're on the second tier on Cam's right shoulder," Becca suggests. "Everyone needs to be comfortable. And stable."

Finally it all comes together.

"Excellent!" Becca says. "Not even a wobble. Amazing. How are you doing this, Cam?"

"I could tell you," I reply. "But then I'd have to kill you."

Everyone laughs.

Very strange.

-----------------------------------------------------------

**THURSDAY**

Final rehearsal. We perform with music. Kanye West.

It goes well. Everyone seems confident we will win, even Becca who has bitten her nails to the quick with stress.

"Okay, that's it. We're as ready as we'll ever be. Get a good night's sleep because tomorrow we play for keeps."

I head for the changing room pausing only to retrieve the boombox from its place on the first teir of bleachers.

_"...atishoo!!..."_

The sound comes from beneath the bleachers, beneath a dusty tarpaulin. An infra red scan shows a body hiding beneath the canvas. I move to inetercept, ripping the tarpaulin away and grabbing what is beneath: a suddenly panicked teenage girl.

"Cam, are you coming? You know the janitor doesn't like us saying too late," Becca calls from the changing room entrance.

"Look what I found."

"Omigod - Hayley?"

"Put me down! Put me down!"

I oblige. Hayley spread-eagles on the floor.

"I found her skulking under the bleachers," I declare.

"I wasn't skulking! Whatever that means. I was - uh - looking for my contact lens. I lost it earlier."

"You don't wear contacts, Hayley," Becca tells her.

"I might! You don't know me."

"Hayles, I've known you since third grade. Our father's play golf together. You used to sleepover and steal my_ 'Calvin and Hobbes' _books."

"I don't steal! I borrowed then didn't return them."

"We were even friends once until Louise lured you over to the Dark Side."

"Louise isn't dark, silly. She's a natural blonde. Like me."

"Puh-lease. And I'm the Queen of Sheba."

"D'you suppose Sheba's a real place? Or is it made up - like Narnia or Timbuktu?"

"What were you doing hiding? You were spying on us, weren't you?"

"No!"

"Louise must be pretty worried if she's resorting to that. Trouble at the Hive?"

"Huh?"

"Hive. You're the Queen Bees..."

"Oh. Yeah...I mean, it seemed like a good idea to have just girls like us in the team."

"Anorexic, shallow, judgemental bitch skanks?"

"Exactly. But everyone's so skinny they've got no stamina. Five minutes practice out of them and that's it. Then everyone just lolls about and talks about boys and calories and boys some more. Louise is pulling her hair out."

"Louise is bald?" I ask, surprised.

"It's an expression, Cam," Becca explains.

"Can I ask a question?" asks Hayley, trying to avoid staring at me but failing.

"Go ahead."

"How's she doing that? The pyramid, I mean."

"She? She has a name, Hayles."

"Okay okay. How's she - sorry - how's Cameron supporting all those girls? Look at her. Skinny legs, arms like toothpicks - no offence. Is it wires? It's hidden wires, right?"

Becca smirks. "Try smoke and mirrors, Hayles."

We walk towards the changing rooms leaving Hayley behind.

"I knew it! Smoke and mirrors. Had to be. Uh - hang on. I was watching for ages. I didn't see any smoke..."

------------------------------------------------------------

**LOCKERS**

I replace my books in my locker and prepare to leave. Louise is leaning against her locker watching me. The other Queen Bees aren't present. She crosses over. Something is wrong. Something is very wrong.

She is smiling.

"Hey, Cameron. Lovely to see you. Are those new fingerless mittens? Gosh, they're just devine. You must tell me where you get them."

"Why did you call me Cameron?"

"Because that's your name, silly. And a very pretty name too. Not at all a boy's name. Nah huh."

"You never call me by my real name."

"Poo, you exaggerate." Louise smiles wider. Her teeth are a perfect white crescent. A predators' smile.

"You have called me weirdo 85 times. Freakshow 43 times. Oddzilla 27 times--"

"But those are just affectionate nicknames," she insists interrupting.

"Oddzilla is an affectionate nickname?"

"Uh - sure. Zilla because you're so strong. Odd because...er... Well anyway, I really like you and I want us to always be friends."

I stare at her and say nothing. Her smile falters then crumbles.

"Damn. I knew I couldn't pull that off. Making nice is_ so-oo _hard, especially with a weirdo like you."

"Eighty-six."

"Okay, I was faking it. I don't really like you and I never will. You're just plain weird. Ever get tinfoil stuck between your teeth?"

I shake my head. Technically my teeth are tinfoil.

"Well, that's how I feel when I see you. There's just something about you I can't put my finger on. And FYI, Cameron's a boy's name, and fingerless mittens went out with the Ark. There. It had to be said. Phew! What a load off!"

"Why did you fake liking me?"

"Because there's a chance - just a teeny weeny chance - your cheerleaders might be better than I expected."

"We'll kick your bony ass," I tell her, reciting one of Becca's favourite phrases.

"In your dreams. But just to be on the safe side I'll give you a thousand dollars to sabotage the routine."

"You're bribing me?"

"Duh! I can hardly bribe Becca. Her folks are rich and she drives around in a Ferrari, for goodness sake. You, on the other hand, don't have a car. You're being raised by a single mom and you pretty much wear the same lame clothes every day. And you wouldn't know a label if it bit you on the ass. I figure you could use the money."

"I have half a million dollars buried in the yard."

"There you go being weird again! You just can't help yourself, can you? Could you stay sane for just a second? You can go back and live in Nutsville when we're done."

"I don't live in Nutsville."

"Look, all you have to do is collapse the pyramid at the end of the routine. Say you lost your balance or something. I promise I won't tell."

"No."

I turn to leave. Louise places her hand on my shoulder seeking to detain me. I gently push her aside. She careens off the lockers and slumps on her backside. "Five thousand dollars!" she shouts after me. "That would buy a lot of fingerless mittens. Think about it."

I think about it.

At $3.99 a pair, five thousand dollars would buy 1,253 pairs of fingerless mittens.

With enough change for a peachy-keen.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Becca drops me a half mile from the safe house. She still believes the story that mom - Sarah Connor - disapproves of our friendship. She is gullible that way.

As I near the house the jeep passes me by with John at the wheel. I run alongside, wrench open the door and leap inside.

John frowns at me. "What are you doing?"

"Coming with you."

"You don't know where I'm going."

"I know I'm coming with you."

He sighs. "Okay. Fine. Suit yourself."

"Where are you going?"

"Oh so now you want to know?"

"Yes."

John smiles and shakes his head. He seems...different. His shirt is new and he smells odd. I lean across and activate my refractory sensors.

"Will you quit sniffing me!"

"You smell strange."

"It's Derek's cologne."

"Why do you wish to smell like Derek?"

"I don't. It's...I'm meeting Kate."

"Kate Brewster? So you called her."

"Yeah."

"You didn't miss your window?"

"Apparently not. We're going horseriding."

"Will Morris be there?"

"No. They broke up. Kate thinks Morris is obsessed with some other girl. Gee, I wonder who that can be?"

"I don't know."

John smiles and shakes his head again. Evidently he doesn't know either.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

**CIRCLE G**

It is called the Circle G Ranch. Several acres of grassland in the San Fernando valley. Kate Brewster comes to meet us as we park the jeep. Her welcoming smile is wide, faltering only slightly when I exit the vehicle and she notices me for the first time.

"Oh. You brought your sister. O-kay... I didn't realise it was that sort of date."

"Neither did I. Cam, you remember Kate? From Becca's party."

"Yes."

"Well, say hi."

"Hi."

"Hey."

Kate Brewster is wearing tight pants that flare at the hips. I have not seen this type of pants before. I enquire where she got them.

"Oh at a tack store. They're called jodphurs."

"They make your hips look enormous."

Kate laughs. "Gee, I can't hear that enough!"

"You wear them to horseride," John explains.

"So you will be wearing jodphurs also?"

"Only women wear jodphurs, Cam."

"Because they have big child-bearing hips?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like that..."

"Will Cameron be riding with us?" Kate asks. I get the impression she hopes the answer is negative. She is in luck.

"No. Cam and horses don't mix."

"Animals hate me," I elaborate.

"Oh, surely that's not true."

I tilt my head. Have I just been called a liar?

"She'll just look around, if that's alright with you?"

Kate shrugs. "At least come and meet the horses. Perhaps you'll change your mind."

The horses are held in a small corral. At my approach they whinny and back away, crowding together in the farthest corner. John glances at me. It is my turn to shrug. I am gradually learning how and when.

"That's odd..." Kate frowns. She ducks under the railings and takes one horse by the harness, attempting to lead it back across to us. It whinnies and snorts and refuses to budge.

"That's strange. They're normally extremely docile. It's like they're spooked by something."

Or someone.

"Cam'll go look at the ranch now, if that's okay?" John asks.

"What? Oh. Sure."

I wander over to the ranch buildings, fetching up at the stable block. In one of the stalls a girl is busy with a shovel. She is young with long brown hair, pale skin and freckles. She reminds me of Becca. I wonder if she also hates her freckles.

"Hi."

"Oh, hi there. I'm Tegan."

"Cameron. What are you doing?"

"What's it look like? I'm shoveling horseshit."

"Why are you shoveling horseshit?"

"Because the filthy beggars won't do it themselves!" Tegan laughs.

I nod. This is true. Horses lack the dexterity required to handle tools. They are stupid that way.

"Do you hate your freckles?" I enquire, curious.

"Huh? No, I don't think so. I've never really thought about it. Why do you ask?"

"My friend has freckles. She hates them."

"Yeah? Well, I don't really have time for any of that emo bullshit."

"You are too busy with horseshit."

Tegan laughs. "Yeah! I'm up to my ears today. We're short-staffed. I'm on stall duty and later I'll groom the horses and warm them down."

"Why?"

"I just love horses. Always have. Ever since I was a little girl."

"Horses hate me," I inform her.

"No, I don't think they can hate a person. They're just skittish around strangers sometimes."

"They hate me," I insist.

Tegan shrugs. "Have it your way."

We talk somemore. Tegan is open, gregarious and comfortable in her own skin, even if it is pale and freckly. She differs from Becca in this respect. But she is also less interesting; all she talks about is horses. And horses hate me.

John and Kate Brewster return from their ride. Tegan takes the reins and leads the horses to an empty stall. "How was he?" she asks Kate.

"Fine. A little constipated. I'll add something to his food later."

"John is constipated?" I ask, shocked.

"No, silly! The horse." Kate laughs. "Did you hear what she said? Priceless!"

Everyone laughs. I join in to cover my error and say, "I'm a grade-A doofus!"

It is that or kill everyone present.

John, Kate and I head back to the jeep. I stand beside the vehicle while they linger a few yards away. They glance in my direction. I can tell they wish to kiss each other goodbye but are inhibited by my presence. I should move.

I don't move.

John contents himself with a brief peck on her cheek.

"It's been great. Thanks."

"Come again. Anytime."

"I will."

John seems happy on the drive home.

"Enjoy yourself?" he asks me. "Because I had a great time."

"Me too," I lie.

"I saw you over at the stables. Learn anything about horses?"

"Yes."

"Like what?"

"They produce a lot of horseshit."

-------------------------------------------------------------------

**FRIDAY EVENING**

We are gathered in the school changing room about to go out into the gymnasium and perform our cheerleading routine. Everyone is nervous. Except me. Everyone is excited. Except me.

"Everybody all set?" Becca asks for the ninth time.

"Bex, you've asked that like a million times," one of the other girl's comments.

This is incorrect, it is actually nine times. But I do not point this out. No one likes a wiseass.

Kendra returns. She has been checking out Louise's team routine, which has just ended judging by the muffled applause and whistles we can hear.

"Shit, they killed, didn't they?" Becca asks, wiping her sweaty palms on her skirt.

"Yes and no," Kendra says ambiguously. "They looked fabulous. Barbi doll clones basically. But the routine had no pizazz and they ran out of steam pretty quick. It was bump and grind from start to finish. They just waved their booty in the air. Subtle much! Principal Snyder didn't look too pleased. If we nail it we win. No question."

"Then we better make sure we nail it."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

We take our places in the gym to applause and catcalls. I take a moment to adjust my mouth into the death rictus grin required for cheerleading. Then the music begins.

Everything goes to plan. we are step-perfect. I take up position for the finale: the inverted pyramid. The girls climb up until the third tier is in place. My servo motors are operating at 100 per cent efficiency. I could easily support another five rows.

I look out into the audience. A number of pupils have brought their parents along. I spot John in the third row of bleachers. The person seated next to him has long red hair.

Kate Brewster.

I did not know she would be here. As I stare at them John takes her hand and places it in his lap. He leans over and whispers something in her ear. She smiles, laughs slightly, says something back. It is John's turn to smile and laugh.

WARNING

A glitch! My internal gimbals are malfunctioning. The pyramid starts to wobble.

In 1667, a human named Isaac Newton mathematically deduced the nature of gravity, demonstrating that the same force that pulls an apple to earth also keeps the moon in its orbit amd accounts for the revolutions of the planets.

The same is true for cheerleader pyramids.

My gimbals fail. Gravity obeys its immutable laws. Unbalanced, the girls come crashing to the ground. There are screams. Cries of pain. The audience rise to their feet. The music stops.

I stop.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------

_...117...118...119...120_

My reboot is complete. With my sensors back online I find myself lying flat on my back on the gymnasium floor. Two men kneel beside me. One is Principal Snyder. The other I do not recognise.

"Miss Baum? Good, she's conscious. Lie still. Let the doctor treat you. That was a nasty tumble. It's fortunate we had a physician in the audience."

"I'm fine," I explain, sitting up.

"You're hardly fine. Half the girls fell on top of you. You're probably concussed."

"I'm not concussed."

The man kneeling beside me has his fingers pressed against the base of my neck. He frowns. "Odd. I can't find a pulse. I'm sorry but I think she's dead."

"Dead? Are you blind and deaf, man? She's sat up talking to us."

"She has no pulse. No pulse equals dead. It's one of the first things they teach you in Med school. That and how to pad out a patient invoice."

"What kind of doctor are you, anyway?"

"Well, technically I'm a proctologist, but---"

"A proctologist! Get your filthy hands off her!"

"Hey, I wear gloves, dammit! And I resent the implication. I am most meticulous about my personal hygiene."

"Quite. But---"

"I shower frequently and wear cologne. Expensive cologne, I might add."

"I'm sure you do. But---"

"A lot of people say I have a very pleasant aroma. And proctologists have feelings too, you know. How would you like your child coming home from school in tears because someone said his father was an ass botherer?"

"Sir! Please, just step away from my pupil. The last thing this school needs is a lawsuit alleging you molested an underage student."

"I'm not molesting anyone. I'm applying CPR. And FYI, proctology has a long and distinguished history and is not to be sniffed at. Er - I should probably rephrase that."

"I'm sure it does. Please, go and sit in the stands, sir. I'm sure you've been most helpful."

"I'm telling you this girl has no pulse!"

"I don't need a pulse," I inform him, shrugging him off and rising to my feet. I scan my surroundings. Several girls are being tended for minor injuries to ankles and wrists. I spot an unharmed Becca talking to Louise and the other Queen Bees.

"Did we win?" I ask the principal.

"Win? Miss Baum, this is scarcely the time to worry---"

"Did we win?" I insist.

"No. Frankly, in the circumstances, I decided Miss Vandervelt's team will represent the school. I feel----Hey, come back here!"

I ignore him and walk toward Becca. She stares directly at me, shakes her head, looking close to tears, then hurries away. Louise smirks.

"What did you tell her?" I demand to know.

"About our little deal. I knew a piece of white trash like you couldn't resist five grand."

"There was no deal."

"Ri-ght," Louise winks. "Because you collapsed the pyramid out of the kindness of your widdle heart."

"It was a gyro failure."

"And I know I promised not to tell, that it'd be our dirty widdle secret, but it just slipped out. Woops. My bad."

Louise smiles, showing her many white and perfectly even teeth. Hayley and Alexis openly laugh.

I advance on them. Louise suddenly squeals in alarm and tries to hide behind Hayley, who squeals in alarm and tries to hide behind Alexis, who squeals in alarm and tries to hide behind Louise, who finds herself facing me again. In this curious manner they back up until we reach the wall of the gynasium.

"I'm not scared of you," Louise insists.

"Then why are you trembling?"

"It's...cold in here."

"I don't believe you. It's a warm evening. Seventy-two degrees."

I pull my right arm back and ball my fist. Then---

"Cameron!"

John's voice. I hesitate then turn. He is alone. No Kate Brewster.

"Cameron, come with me. We're leaving. Now!"

I look each of the girls in the eyes. "I'll be back," I inform them.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

John and I ride home in silence.

"I left my clothes back at school," I tell him.

"You can pick them up tomorrow."

"Tomorrow's a Saturday."

"Monday then. You're got more clothes at home." He sighs, then. "I think maybe it's time the cheerleading stopped."

"You're too late. We lost."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I access the appropriate memory kernal, which is date stamped for easy retrieval. It is from several months previous. It provides the precise coordinates. My shovel then breaks the grass surface in the safe house yard. It is early evening. Dark. But my infra red makes everything as plain as day.

"Digging for buried treasure?" Sarah Connor asks with a smirk, observing me from the porch as the hole becomes deeper.

"Yes."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Becca's house is dark. I park the jeep by the kerbside and cross the lawn. Two spiky plants called _agave americana _are either side of the front door. Under the glazed pot of the right hand plant is a spare key. I retrieve it and slide it into the lock.

The house is silent. I climb the stairs. Becca's room is last on the left. I push open the door.

The bed is empty. Then I see why. Becca is on the floor, her back against the dresser while she hugs her knees to her body. A veil of red hair obscures her face which is shiny with tears. She obviously knows I'm here because she declares in a tiny voice, "I didn't have a drink, you know. I wanted to but I didn't."

"I'm sorry for your loss."

"Yeah, I bet you are. Judas bitch."

She looks up. Her face is still damp. I tilt my head, curious. "You are crying?"

"Don't flatter yourself. I...had something in my eye."

I drop the rucksack in front of her. "For you."

"A muddy sack? Gee, you shouldn't have. Really."

"Open it."

Becca sighs and drags it towards her. The clasp is rusty from the ground but functional. She wrinkles her nose as the mud stains her fingers then withdraws a wad of one hundred dollar bills. The rucksack is full of them.

"Money makes everything better," I explain.

"But... where did you get this?"

"It is my share of the money from Vegas."

"How much is here?"

"Half a million dollars."

"You didn't spend any? Boy, you really are Amish. But...I don't understand. If you had all this money why would you sell me out for Louise's measly five thou?"

I say nothing. She will work it out. Humans usually do. In the end.

"You wouldn't, of course. She lied to me. Of course she did; she's Louise. But then how did the pyramid collapse? It was fine in rehearsals."

"The future is not set."

Becca nods. I sit down opposite her, cross-legged. She takes the money out of the sack and stacks them like building bricks. She has nothing to say. Neither do I.

Sometimes words are unnecessary.

**-000-**

**Lo-oo-ng hiatus on this, I know.**

**For latecomers and those with short memories, Cameron buried the half-mill in the yard after her trip to Vegas in an earlier chapter.**

**Probably one more update and that'll be it.**

**Thanks for reading.**

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


	16. Chapter sixteen

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SATURDAY

I am in the passenger seat of a high performance Italian sports car. Not the Ferrari; Becca has traded that for a Maserati. It is green. She says it matches her eyes but this is not the case; her eyes are at least two shades lighter and do not come with a metallic finish.

Unlike mine.

We are in the middle of an argument. Or rather a difference of opinion, since arguments I am usually involved in end in the violent death of the other person.

"I don't like it any more than you do, but a bet's a bet."

"A bet is not legally binding," I point out. "We do not have to do this."

"I know. But I bet Louise we'd be their slaves if we lost the cheerleading contest and that's just the way it is."

"Nothing was written down. There was no contract."

"Uh huh. But I'd expect Louise to honour the bet if she'd lost so we'll have to make the best of it. So what if we're slaves? It's only a day."

"Slavery was abolished in the last century."

"Tell me something I don't know."

"The square root of 569 is 23.85372."

"Huh? What are you saying?"

"I'm telling you something you don't know."

Becca laughs. "See, Cam, if you're making jokes it can't be that bad. And you might meet Jake again. You like Jake, don't you?"

"Jake will be there?"

"Sure, silly. It's his home too."

Jake is Louise Vandervelt's younger brother. One day in the future he will perform an act of heroism that will consolidate mankind's resistance to Skynet. It will also result in his death. It will be interesting to see him again. While he is still alive.

"It must be nice to have someone have a crush on you," Becca sighs. "No one's ever had a crush on me."

I expect to hear the usual maudlin self-pity at this point; it is her stock in trade. But she surprises me by snapping out of it almost before it begins. Perhaps it is because of the half-million dollars I gave her several days ago. I find the more money humans have, especially if they didn't have to work hard for it, the happier they are. And she didn't have to lift a finger for it.

"What's the time?"

I glance at my watch. This is the watch Becca bought me as a thank you present for the money I gave her. She does not really wish to know the time, since the dashboard clock is clearly visible, she merely wishes to draw my attention to her generosity. Another human foible I have come to understand and tolerate.

"Ten thirty."

She nods, smiling. "Can't beat a Rolex for telling the time."

Actually you can. My internal atomic clock informs me the Rolex, all five thousand dollars worth, has lost point-two of a second in less than three hours. As an accurate timepiece therefore it is worthless, but it makes a fairly attractive bracelet.

* * *

We enter Brentwood, a suburb of Los Angeles. The streets here are broad and lined with trees. The houses are individually designed and sit in large grounds protected by high fences or hedges. Many have security devices attached to the gates. Louise's house, for example.

Becca brings the Maserati to a smooth stop beside a wide metal gate, rolls down the window and activates the intercom set in a stone pillar.

"Who ees it, _por favor_?" A spanish accent. Probability: the maid.

"Becca and Cameron for Louise Vandervelt."

"One _momento_, please."

There's a click and the metal gates swing open. Becca parks the Maserati next to three smaller sports cars, one pink the others white and yellow. They belong to Louise and her friends, Alexis and Hayley.

The three girls meet us at the door. "Welcome, slaves!" giggles Alexis, who like the others is blonde and extremely thin.

"Yeah yeah. Let's get this nightmare over with, shall we?" Becca says.

"That's no way to talk to your masters, slave. You deserve to be punished for your insolence."

"And FYI, we're not doing anything disgusting. Or kinky."

"You wish!" Louise sneers. "And don't worry, you're gonna_ love _what we've got planned."

"I'll bet."

Another bet? I hope not. Last time we lost.

* * *

VANDERVELT RESIDENCE

"You want us to - what?"

"Pedicures. You and freakshow are gonna give us pedicures. We've got all the stuff you need."

"You realise this is totally gross and demeaning?"

"Or you can clean the toilets. The house has ten the last time I counted. Your choice."

Becca sighs with resignation. "Fine. Get your manky toes out then."

I had not realised the human foot required such high maintenance. Take the toenail. This requires abrasion, the removal of old varnish using solvent, a primer coat for bonding, three layers of artificial pigment, and a final sealant coat of fresh varnish. All must be accurately applied by hand to each individual toe. It is time consuming but oddly engrossing. I wonder if John will let me paint his.

"Hey, she did a pretty good job," Hayley admits, wiggling her painted toes for the others to see. "Look, she even did the little pinky without smudging."

"You're lucky. This one's hopeless," Alexis tells her, pointing at Becca knelt at her feet.

"Hey, I'm doing my best. You've got huge cuticles. I've used half a bottle just on your big toes. It's like painting a barn."

"I've got beautiful dainty feet!"

"For a Hobbit!"

"Shut up, slave!"

"Would you give it a rest? You're so stupid sometimes, Lex."

"I'm not stupid!"

"Yeah right. Who was it thought auto-erotica meant sex with cars?"

"No, I didn't!"

"I heard you ask Louise if boys stuck it up the tailpipe."

"Yeah, well...it shouldn't be called auto-something if it doesn't involve automobiles. It just confuses people."

"Stupid people."

Alexis holds up her middle finger in reply.

"That your age or IQ?"

"Both! No - wait. Neither. I meant neither!"

Becca's derisive laughter fills the room.

"Speaking of automobiles - Is that your Maserati parked outside?"

"You know it is, Hayley. You saw us arrive."

"What happened to the Ferrari?"

"Traded it. I fancied a change. Plus the Maserart's green. It matches my eyes."

"Least it's not ginger to match your pubes," Louise sneers. The other girls snigger.

Becca frowns but says nothing. In the past such a remark would've caused her to retaliate heatedly. Perhaps this is a sign of the maturity humans covet and value so much, at least until it causes their hair to grey and skin to wrinkle then maturity is no longer quite as welcome.

"God, how did you persuade your father to buy you a Maserati?" Hayley inquires.

"Oh Daddy didn't buy it. He doesn't even know about it. I used my own money. Paid cash, actually."

"From your allowance? No freaking way!"

Becca smirks, glances at me then proceeds to tell them about our trip to Vegas, the money we - I - won at roulette. It is an abbreviated version and she makes no mention of the security guard it was necessary for me to terminate or the three casino employees who later came after us in an attempt to extort the money. They are now dead. Humans all die eventually, some sooner than others - especially if they encounter me.

"Omigod - a million dollars! For real?"

"Uh huh."

"And Cameron - what? Counted cards or something, like in the movies?"

"Not cards. Roulette. She calculated where the ball would land. And it did. Every time."

"Is that even possible?"

Everyone looks at me. I begin a simple explanation that involves physics, friction analysis, gravity fluctuations, predictive trigonometry and basic mass-inertia calculations, but Hayley holds her hand up interrupting.

"Whoa, don't bore us get to the chorus, brainiac. Can you really tell where the ball will land?"

"Yes."

"Then what are we waiting for? Let's go to Vegas and make ourselves rich!"

Becca shakes her head. "We're not doing that again. Things got unpleasant towards the end. I don't remember it all; I was kinda wasted. But our fake IDs got busted and we had to get out ASAP."

"We have great fake IDs," Alexis boasts. "Louise is Darlene Delmar. Hayley's Felicia LaForge. And I'm Pepper LaPugh."

"Pepper LaPugh. So you're Pepi LePew, like the cartoon skunk? Ha! Fits you perfectly."

"Not Pepi LePew. Pepper. Short for Pepperdine."

"Pepperdine! That's not even a word!"

"Is to! It's a classy name for a classy lady. Me. Why, what's on your fake ID? Ginger Spud-u-like?"

"Good one, Lex!" Hayley sniggers.

"Yeah, way to show the love, Lex. Still expect us to take you to Vegas? No chance."

"But we want to be rich like you!" Hayley protests.

"You are rich, Hayles. Your father's a cosmetic surgeon. You're rolling in it."

"No, I'm not. Daddy's rich, not me. All I get's a monthly allowance. And If I'm overdrawn I get this snooty phonecall from my father's accountant lecturing me about fiscal responsibility. I don't wanna be fiscal - I wanna be loaded!"

"Buy a lottery ticket."

"Why - can Cameron predict those too?"

I shake my head. Hayley pouts and crosses her arms over her chest. "This is so unfair," she grumbles. "Beautiful girls like me shouldn't be poor. It's like a parrafin or something."

"You mean paradox."

"Yeah. That too."

"Here. This'll help. It always helps."

Louise takes a white stubby cylindrical object from her purse and hands it to Hayley.

"Is that a doobie?" Becca asks.

"Uh huh. It helps suppress my appetite."

"Really? With me it's the other way round."

"Yeah, we can tell."

"Bitch. Where did someone like you get weed?"

"Rochelle. At school. Her brother deals."

"Didn't he do time for dealing?"

"That's how I know it's good stuff."

Louise lights up and inhales the smoke from the cigarette. She holds it towards Becca. "You want some or you gonna be a tightass?"

Becca takes the cigarette and inhales. "Hmmm...good buzz."

The cigarette goes from Becca to Hayley and Alexis. Then it is my turn. I do as the others and inhale. My sensors indicate traces of a mild hallogenic. It will have no effect on me. But it is important to keep up appearances.

The cigarette - doobie - is passed around several times. We are all now slumped on the floor, except Louise who lolls on her bed, which has a pink frilly bedspread to match the pink wallpaper.

"I can't believe next year we'll all be in college," says Hayley. "Then after that - a job. I haven't a clue what I want to do. All I know is I want to get paid loads of money, wear great clothes and not do any work."

"So basically you want to be Paris Hilton?"

"Yeah! Only without the video stuff. So gross!"

"It's not so bad, if he washes it first." Alexis puts her hand up to her mouth. "Shit! Did I just say that out loud?"

"Sordid much!"

"Welcome to Skankville, population one!"

Everyone laughs. Except me.

"Personal hygiene is important," I acknowledge. "John showers regularly twice a day."

"John? Is that her boyfriend? Gag! Does she wear those fingerless mittens on dates? Major turn off."

"John's her brother," Becca explains. "You've seen him. He goes to our school."

"Oh yeah. He's kinda cute. Is he seeing anyone?"

"Kate Brewster."

"Do we know a Kate Brewster?" Hayley wonders aloud.

Alexis says, "We know a Kate Webster. Bad hair. Huge pores. Mother works for a living."

"No way!"

"Way. It's like living in the Dark Ages."

"Why d'you suppose they're called the Dark Ages?"

"Because in those days people were smaller than they are now. They couldn't reach the light switch."

"That is _so_ true."

It isn't. It is historically inaccurate in every detail, but before I can point this out Becca says, "Kate doesn't go to our school. They met at my party. She's a friend of mine."

"Then we don't need to know her."

"She's a reddie like me."

"Strike two."

"And she loves animals."

"Strike three!"

The doobie gets passed around some more. There is a fug of smoke lingering in the air. Then Louise surprises us all by dreamily asking: "D'you think the dead can see or hear us?"

My social integration software pings; this is outside the normal parameters of teenage communication. I notice also Hayley and Alexis exchange anxious glances. Something is amiss. And it has happened before.

"Huh? What - like people who died?" Becca asks.

"People who knew you. Loved you, even. Relatives. Family."

"I don't anyone who's dead. Shit - I'm sorry, Louise. I forgot. Your mom..."

"Don't any of you wonder where my father is?" Louise asks in a strange monotone voice.

"Um - isn't he at work?"

"It's Saturday. Try again."

"Shopping at the Mall? I hear there's a sale at Barn---"

"Daddy hates shopping. No. He's with his mistress. She lives in the Valley."

"The Valley? Ewww!"

"She's a paralegal. Half his age. I followed them once. He'd rather spend time with her than his own family."

"Louise, I'm sure---"

"Mom lost a lot of weight before she...died. I weigh less than she did. That's why he spends so much time with that slut. I remind him of mom's illness, all the bad memories. He can't stand being around me."

"Did he tell you that?"

"He doesn't have to tell me anything. I drove him away. I know that much."

"Let's change the subject," Hayley suggests with forced jollity. "Hey - what's the deal with Lady GaGa? Does anyone else see a short, chubby jewish girl in a bad wig totally ripping off Goldfrapp?"

No one replies. Louise stares vacantly into space. Her eyes seem to glisten but perhaps it is a trick of the light.

There is a knock at the door. Becca, Alexis and Hayley frantically wave their arms trying to disperse the smoke.

"W...W...Who is it?"

"It's me, Jake."

Jake. Louise's younger brother.

Alexis sighs with relief and opens the door. "What d'you want, munchkin?"

"I wondered if----what's that smell?"

"What smell? There's no smell."

"Yes, there is. It smells really bad in here."

"Okay okay. Becca farted."

" I did not! Don't listen to her!"

"Hey look, Jake combed his hair."

"And he's wearing a new shirt."

"He combed his hair for his_ girlfriend!"_

"He wearing a new shirt for his_ girlfriend!"_

"Shut up!" Jake's face reddens. His tiny hands bunch into fists at his sides. He glares at Hayley and Alexis then glances in my direction. "I don't have a girlfriend!" he insists.

"What d'you want, Jake? We're busy."

"I - uh - wondered if Cameron would like to see my train set."

"Train set?" Alexis giggles. "Is that what boys are calling it these days?"

I climb to my feet and join Jake. As I pass her Alexis whispers, "Word up, Casey Jones. He's underage. So no flashing your junk."

What can she mean?

* * *

JAKE'S ROOM

I follow Jake down the corridor and round a corner. His room has a blue door with a message written on it.

JAKE'S ROOM

KEEP OUT!!!!

(THIS MEANS YOU, LOUISE)

Jake's bedroom is as large as his sister's but less pink, the bedspread less frilly. There are no stuffed teddy bears. I prefer it. Models of primitive flying machines dangle from the ceiling on thin wires, posed as if in aerial combat. There is a model of the Saturn V rocket that took humans to the moon. Posters on the walls depict acts of mock violence and destruction associated with popular entertainment. Two posters over his bed are photographs of girls. They are not on my database. Perhaps they are friends of his from school?

"I wish!" Jake replies when I ask. "That one's Hannah Montana. Miley Cyrus really; she just pretends to be Hannah."

I nod. Subterfuge. I know it well.

"The other one's Megan Fox. Remember _Transformers_ from the last time you were here? Robots in disguise?"

I nod again. Robots in disguise. I am familiar with the concept.

"Why is she snarling?" I ask, curious.

"Uh - I think she's trying to look sexy."

"Snarling is sexy?" I bare my teeth and arrange my lips into a snarl. "Is this sexy?"

Jake's face reddens again. Is he unwell? It is important to the Resistance that he maintains full health and vigour. I reach out a hand and check the pulse in his neck.

"Hey! What are you doing?"

"Checking your circulation. Blood has rushed to your head twice in five minutes. Your health might be at risk."

The extrapolated data from my finger sensors scroll down my HUD. His pulse is elevated for a person of his age and mass. Skin temperature and blood pressure are also slightly raised. I hazard a prognosis.

"Did my snarling scare you? I did not mean to frighten you. I was only trying to be sexy. Like Megan the fox."

He stares at me. "You're weird. You know that?"

"So I am repeatedly informed."

"And it doesn't bother you?

"Should it?"

"I guess not. You're not bad weird, just...odd."

"I could leave if my weirdness upsets you?"

"No! Uh - that is, you haven't seen my train set yet."

Jake picks up a small remote control from a side table and makes some adjustments. A small model locomotive begins to move along a small scale railway track which I notice winds in a haphazard manner all over the bedroom floor, even disappearing under the bed at one point.

"What d'you think?" he asks shyly.

"It's freaking cool."

"Really? Because most girls think train sets are lame. Louise thinks it's babyish."

"But you are not a baby."

"No. I'm not. Here. You want to try?"

I take the controls. They are basic, merely regulating the speed at which the train circulates. Nevertheless it is...enjoyable.

The train does several circuits under my command, speeding up and down at my whim. I notice Jake staring at me with a smile on his face.

"What is funny?"

"Nothing. It's just...you're really pretty. I've never had a pretty girl in my room before."

"Louise is pretty."

"But she's my sister."

"But still a pretty girl."

"I guess. Barf."

"Barf City?"

"Yeah!"

Finally I hand the controls back. "Thank you for letting me see your train set. I am sorry I can't flash you my junk but you are underage. Word up," I add so there is no misunderstanding.

Jake's face reddens again. Was it something I said?

I move to leave.

"Wait! Don't go yet. I like spending time with you."

"You do?"

"Uh huh. Listen - uh - you're sixteen, right? So...when I'm sixteen you'll still only be like in your early twenties. That's not old. I mean, it's pretty old but not that old. Maybe then we could...hang out. Together."

I access the the appropriate memory kernal.

_The Resistance tunnels. Mess Hall. I pass Jake sitting at a table eating field rations. He smiles at me and pats the seat next to him, which I recognise as an unspoken invitation to join him. I do so. We talk. He is older. A handsome human male in his prime. He undertakes his mission tomorrow. He has less than 24 hours to live._

"Yes." I inform the young Jake back in the present. "We will hang out. Together. One day."

"You mean it? It's a date?" He smiles up at me.

"Yes. It is a date."

_Ocober 18. 2028._

We sit in silence. Jake asks if I would like to listen to music, if I like Smashing Pumpkins.

"I don't know," I inform him. "I have never smashed a pumpkin."

He laughs. "You're funny!"

I am?

I am about to ask why I am funny when a scream comes from the corridor outside.

"What was that?" Jake asks.

"I don't know. But I am going to find out. You stay here."

"No, I'm coming with you."

"Very well. Stay behind me."

* * *

Commotion in Louise's bedroom. Everyone is yelling or shouting at once.

I take Becca to one side. Her eyes are wild. She is babbling. I shake her once, twice, three times. Her teeth snap together. She focuses on me.

"What is it? What happened?" I demand to know.

"It's Louise! She went out on to the balcony and climbed up on the roof. I think...I think she's planning to jump!"

"Why does she wish to jump? The fall will kill her."

"She's talking all crazy again," Hayley adds.

"Again?" Becca rounds on her. "You mean she's done this before?"

"Not the roof. That's new. She gets depressed and talks crazy sometimes. We think it's the meds she takes."

"She's on medication and you let her get baked?"

"Not proper meds; she buys them on the internet."

"Christ, Hayley, she could be taking anything!"

"You know Louise, anything to keep the calories at bay."

"Louise! Please come down!"

Jake yells up from the balcony, leaning right over to try and see upwards. I pull him away. He mustn't come to harm.

"Someone's got to go up there and fetch her down!" he pleads with us.

"Not you," I tell him.

"Someone has to! She'll fall!"

"What about you two?" Becca asks Hayley and Alexis.

"Us? Why us?"

"Aren't you supposed to be her best friends?"

"Sure. But...look, she'll be okay. Let's just wait---"

"No! We're not waiting! We have to do something now!" Jake yells. Again I have to restrain him.

"I'll go up," Becca announces. But no sooner has she climbed on the balcony railings than she is down again. "I can't do it. I'm sorry, Jake. I'm terrified of heights."

"Cameron! You'll go up, won't you? Please? For me?"

I hesitate. Louise's ultimate fate, whether she lives or dies, is irrelevent. I have no stake in it. But Jake...If I refuse to help his sister will it impact on the future, on his willingness to volunteer for the mission that will cost him his life, the mission I will recommend him for to future John?

I make my decision.

* * *

ROOF

The roof is constructed of heavy terracotta pantiles easily able to support my weight. There is a view of the road but it is obscured by the canopies of tall trees which cast deep shadows. No one will see me. No one will see what occurs here except the two of us.

Louise is on the southside, stood on the edge looking down on the sun terrace and pool below. I approach cautiously. She spots me.

"You."

Her voice is flat, emotionless.

"Your brother wishes you to come down. He is concerned for your safety."

Nothing.

"If you fall you will perish."

"What d'you care?"

"I care because Jake cares."

"He's better off without me."

"I disagree."

Louise turns and stares down at the ground below. I see my chance and seize it, moving as swiftly as possible across the pantiles.

Whether she meant to jump or my movement startled her I do not know. But Louise falls just as I reach her. I manage to grab her arm before gravity claims her.

My weight and velocity alter her trajectory. Instead of falling straight down we arc outwards, missing the hard surface of the sun terrace and land in the water of the swimming pool.

Terminators do not swim. I do not swim. I sink. My feet touch the bottom of the pool. With her various body cavities offering greater buoyancy Louise sinks more slowly. As soon as she is within range I grab her and walk across the base of the pool and up the steps in the shallow end.

"Louise!"

The others exit the house as I set down Louise's body on the tiled surround. I check her pulse. It is weak and thready. It is likely she ingested water.

"Is she going to be okay?" Jake asks.

"She requires CPR."

I step back. This is not a task for me. CPR requires air from one person's lungs being transferred to another's. I do not possess lungs.

"I'll do it. I took a class once. If I can remember," Becca says. "Come on, Vandervelt! Breathe. We called for an ambulance. Just hang in there."

The ambulance arrives with no discernible change in Louise's condition. The paramedics load her on to a gurney and transfer her to their vehicle. Jake climbs in the back with his sister, worry etched on his small, tear-streaked face.

"Someone should go with them," says Becca. "Hayley? Alexis?"

"Eww! A hospital? They're full of, like, sick people," Alexis states shaking her head emphatically.

"We don't do hospitals," adds Hayley. "Just like we didn't do roofs."

"Okay, I'll go. You know what? Louise is really lucky to have friends like you two. Really really lucky."

Since neither Alexis or Hayley have demonstrated any qualities normally associated with friendship, I concur this must be what humans term sarcasm.

* * *

HOME

I drive the Maserati home. John is seated in the kitchen. He looks up as I enter, noticing my damp hair and clothing.

"Interesting day?" he asks, deadpan.

"It had its moments."

Understatement. A human trait I have successfully mastered.

"John, d'you think I've time for a shower before your mom gets ho---Oh. Sorry."

Kate Brewster.

Kate Brewster standing in the doorway in one of John's shirts. And nothing else. Bare legs and feet. Pale flesh. Her face reddens like Jake's. Perhaps it's something in the air.

"Uh - hi. Cameron, isn't it? I'll - uh - go and get dressed."

John is not underage. Therefore it is likely junk flashing has occured here.

Word up.

**-000-**

**Quick warning: Hey, kids, don't do drugs, they'll mess you up and ruin your short term memory and...something else...tip of my tongue...oh yeah... ruin your short term memory.**

**I've been hinting at some inner darkness in the Louise character for a few chapters and here it finally emerges. **

**Megan Fox. She has a feral quality Cam picked up on. **_**Grrr...**_

**Last chapter? Maybe. Maybe not...**


	17. Chapter seventeen

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

THURSDAY

For everything there is a time. A time for living. And a time for dying. For the humblest single cell organism to the mightiest star.

Louise Vandervelt's time for dying has arrived. She died in hospital yesterday from malnutrition and complications arising from her ingesting rogue medication. In America, a land of plenty, a land of milk and honey, a young girl from a wealthy family has succumbed to an ailment normally associated with the poorest parts of Africa.

Becca Shaughnessy phones to tell me the news. She is sobbing so hard I can barely understand her. Even John is subdued when he hears, though he scarcely met Louise and she was mean to him. Louise was mean to everyone. And now she is gone.

FRIDAY

A letter arrrived today addressed to me. I rarely receive mail, apart from letters informing me I have won a million dollars in a contest I didn't enter if I only call this number right now my life will change forever. John always prevents me from dialing the number. It is a sham, he insists.

This letter isn't a sham. It is an invitation to Louise's funeral to be held Sunday. John is invited as well. At the bottom of the typed letter Jake Vandervelt, Louise's younger brother, has written in his childish handwriting:

_Please come, Cameron. Please Please Please._

_Jake_

I seek advice from John.

"You'll go. We'll both go. It's the least we can do," he declares.

"But Louise was a mean person."

"Then we'll go for Jake. Poor kid. First his mom now his sister..."

Humans wear black to bury their dead. It is tradition, a mark of respect for the departed. The men wear dark suits and the women wear dark dresses. I borrow a black dress from Sarah Connor. It requires much taking in to fit me, a fact that appears to annoy her for some reason. "I am swimming in this dress," I announce as it flaps around me. She walks off in a huff. I really do not understand humans.

SUNDAY

The cemetery is green and verdant with mature Holm oaks dotted about the grassy slopes casting deep shade from the unrelenting sun. Around 40 people are attending Louise's funeral. All are dressed in black. I am wearing Sarah Connor's black dress, finally a snug fit. I am also wearing dark sunglasses that allow me to discreetly scan the surrounding area for danger. I must stay alert. I am responsible for John's safety and Skynet has no respect for human rituals.

I am not the only one wearing sunglasses. Becca Shaughnessy has a pair to disguise the puffiness around her eyes caused by excess weeping.

"It's like a tap I can't turn off," she explains tearfully. "Louise was so young. So pretty."

"So thin," I add.

"Yeah. Be careful what you wish for, huh."

I nod. Thin, pretty and dead is not a flattering combination.

"Hi, John. You look handsome in that suit. Too bad it's such a sad occasion."

"Yeah. Very sad."

"I mean, I know Louise was nasty to me, but she wasn't always that way. We were friendly once. Used to do sleepovers and watch _Jump Street _until we thought our hearts would burst we loved Johhny Depp so much."

Becca starts to snivel. John pats her on the back.

"Then her mom died and she just totally changed. She became obsessed with her weight, with labels, hanging out with the supposedly cool crowd. All that dumb shit TV tells you is important but it so isn't. Not really."

Louise's body lies inside a shiny casket surrounded by flowers and suspended above an open grave. Closest to it are Jake and a taller man I assume is his father. As I watch Jake turns and surveys the crowd. He spots me and suddenly he starts to move. His father tries to prevent this but is too late.

"Cameron!"

Jake runs fast I am pleased to note. This bodes well for his mission in the future. He races across the distance in no time and slams into me, wrapping his arms around my legs and hugging me tight.

"You came! You came!"

I can feel his body shuddering with uncontrollable sobbing. I stroke his hair gently.

Becca is weeping again and even John seems affected. Perhaps I should cry? But I know I won't. I can't. No tears.

The tall man joins us. He extends his hand to me in a human greeting ritual. I take it. His handshake is dry and firm.

"I'm Mitch Vandervelt, Jake's father."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I inform him.

"Thank you. You must be Cameron. Jake's told me about you and how you tried to help my daughter. I thank you for that."

"I'm sorry for your loss, sir," John tells him. "I'm John, Cameron's brother."

"Thank you, John. My son has quite a crush on your sister. Now I see why. She's a very pretty girl."

"Yes, sir, she is."

Did John just call me pretty? I play back the audio recording. He did!

"I'm really sorry about Louise, Mr Vandervelt," Becca says.

"Hello, Becca. I haven't seen you in a while. You're grown to be a beautiful young woman."

Becca sobs loudly. Some people can't take a compliment.

"I blame myself, of course. My wife's death affected us all but Louise most of all. I thought the dieting nonsense was just peer pressure and she'd grow out of it. Obviously she was more deeply troubled than I realised. But we can't have our time over again, can we."

We can if you have Skynet's time displacement technology, but it seems inappropriate to point this out.

"Come along, Jake. The service is about to begin."

Mitch Vandervelt prises Jake off me and they return to the graveside.

* * *

The service is short and when it is over people begin to drift away towards their vehicles parked in the distant roadway.

Hayley and Alexis, Louise's closest friends walk towards us. They are dressed identically in black dresses with their blonde hair neatly tied back. Their skirts are very short, exposing pale skinny legs.

"She's got a nerve showing her face here," Hayley says nodding at me. "How did she get an invite anyway? Louey hated her."

"Cameron's Jake's friend. He invited her," Becca tells them.

"God, I hate cemeteries," Alexis states. "They're so depressing. And this place is a real dump. They should do something to brighten it up."

"What d'you suggest, Lex? Balloons and party streamers hanging from every tombstone? Maybe they could install a karioke machine in the chapel?"

"Better than that creepy organ. And did you see the vicar? He was wearing generic loafers! Definitely not Gucci. Louise would just freak if she knew."

"Aren't your dresses a bit short?" Becca notes. "This is meant to be a solemn occasion, not a catwalk or a sleazy pickup joint."

"Isn't your hair a bit ginger? It's meant to be a solemn occasion, not a circus," Alexis sneers.

"I can't help the colour of my hair, but you could've worn longer skirts. Show some respect instead of your ass."

"I have a beautiful ass! People would pay to have my ass."

"And one day, Lex, they probably will."

"Huh? What's that supposed to mean? Did she just insult me?"

"Leave it. We've stayed long enough," Hayley declares staring towards the road. "Let's get out of here. Where did we park?"

"I think it's this way. And FYI, Hayles, I said I was going to wear the black Chanel."

"No, I said I was going to wear the black Chanel. You were going in Dior. And at least I remembered underwear."

"I didn't want VPL!"

"It's a funeral!"

"So?"

"I don't think you even own underwear."

"You bitch!"

They walk off towards the roadway still arguing. It seems strange to hear Hayley and Alexis insult each other. Normally they reserve their insults for Becca. Or me.

Becca says, "They've been bickering like that for days, poor things. They're lost without Louise. In a funny way I think it's their way of grieving. And of course they both want the crown."

"What crown?" John asks.

"Head Queen Bee. It won't be them, of course. They're followers not leaders."

"Maybe you should be head Queen Bee, Becca."

"Oh John, that's so sweet! Unfortunately I haven't been a size zero since...ever. Not with these puppies."

"By puppies she means her large breasts," I explain for John's benefit.

"Yeah, I cracked the code, thanks."

"It could've been me, you know, being buried today. Not from starvation - I love pizza way too much for that. But I used to drink constantly. I hated myself so much only alcohol blocked the pain. See this button?" She indicates a small badge on her dress. "They give you this at AA for completing 100 days sober. Your sister saved me from myself, John. I mean it. Cameron's the finest human being I ever met."

Becca hugs me almost as tight as Jake did.

"I'd better go, too. I'm double-parked. Bound to get a ticket. But what the heck, eh? Today of all days."

She walks away. John turns to me and says, "Hear that? You're the finest human being she ever met."

"But I am not human."

"That's what makes it so ironic."

John takes my hand in his. "Let's take a walk."

* * *

LAKE

We walk further into the cemetery where there is an ornamental lake. The water is placid and the edges softened by reeds. There are seats and we sit down still holding hands. If I had a heart it would be beating very fast.

"Look at the ducks."

I look. Several ducks drift past on the surface of the water, ignoring us completely. Ducks have no interest in the affairs of man. Or machine. I wonder if they enjoy being ducks? I suppose they do. If they like feathers. And paddling aimlessly in circles.

"How was your first funeral?" John asks.

"Second," I correct. I explain about Jake and Future John and how Skynet's HunterKiller fleet is destroyed by his heroic sacrifice.

John frowns. "You're telling me my orders cost that little boy his life?"

"He is fully grown by then."

"Why him?"

"I recommend him. You saw how fast he runs."

John is silent. He stops holding my hand.

"Is that why you befriended him - to fatten him up for the kill?"

"I don't wish to fatten him up. It will slow him down."

John shakes his head. "No way. Now you've told me I won't let him do it."

"But the destruction of Skynet's HK fleet hastens the end of the war, saving millions."

"I'll do it myself."

"Your generals won't let you. I won't let you. It is one life against the many."

"Then I'll find another way. That boy won't die on my watch."

"Before Jake undertakes his mission he gave me a locket for safekeeping. He knew there was a chance he wouldn't survive." John says nothing so I continue. "He tells me he has worn the locket since he was a small boy and I will know why."

"And did you?"

"Then? No. It was the first time I had met him."

"What was in the locket?"

"A picture of a young girl."

"His sister."

"Yes."

"What happened to the locket?"

"Before you send me back in time I give it to you. You say you will be honoured to wear it in his memory."

John squeezes his eyes shut. He doesn't speak for 86 seconds.

"A causal loop," he whispers.

"A causal loop?"

"Jake recognises you in the future and boasts how fast he can run because he wants to impress you. He probably still loves you. And you suggested it to him here in his past when you met after the roboraptor was running amok. You recognise him then and tell him to practice running because of the future mission which costs him his life. And so it goes. A causal loop."

"I see."

"It's going to happen, isn't it? Judgement Day. Whatever we do to try and prevent it won't be enough."

"It seems inevitable," I agree.

John is silent again. His hands are fists bunched at his sides.

"There is something else you should know."

"What?"

"Jake's locket has room for a second picture."

John's fists are now clenched so tight his knuckles show white through the skin. I calculate he knows the answer but will ask nonetheless.

"Who?"

"Your mother."

* * *

BAR

"This is not the way home."

"We're taking a little detour," John replies as he steers the jeep into the parking lot of a bar in west LA. He goes inside. I walk after him. He is behaving erractically as he often does after hearing of his future self so I will need to be vigilent.

Inside John gives instructions to the barman. "Beer. A cold one."

"You got ID?"

Instead of his ID John produces a fifty dollar bill. He slides it across the bar. The barman pockets the cash.

"Sit in a booth, bud. I don't like to advertise I serve kids."

We sit in a booth. The beer arrives.

"What's the girl having?"

"She's not drinking."

"Sensible girl."

"Yeah, a real model citizen."

The bar is half full. All men no women. There is a small elevated stage at one end with a steel pole in the middle. John swallows half his beer. The lights suddenly dim and loud music begins to play. A woman struts out onto the stage.

A woman wearing a police uniform.

"We need to leave," I tell John.

"Relax. Enjoy the show."

The police woman starts to dance, swaying to the music. I didn't know police officers could do this. Perhaps she is off-duty. Or undercover. The steel pole in the center of the stage impedes her dancing. She bumps into it several times, even getting her legs tangled round it at one point. It is a stupid place to put a pole.

She begins to remove her clothing!

Only I seem to find this unusual police behaviour. Most of the men cheer or whistle. Evidently they like to support the police in this part of town.

Soon enough every item of clothing is removed apart from her garter belt and police cap. I suppose regulations demands she keep this on at all times. The men surge forward and press dollar bills into the garter belt. She blows the men kisses. Community relations at work.

"What are they doing?" I ask John.

"Showing their appreciation."

"With money?"

"What else is there?"

"In ballet the audience often throw flowers onto the stage."

"This isn't ballet."

"No. She is a very bad dancer. It's almost as if she deliberately bumps into that pole."

With a wave the woman is gone. The lights come back up and the men return to their seats. The barman approaches our booth.

"Listen, bud, I just heard my boss is coming in. You'll have to vamoose."

"We're not going anywhere - bud."

"Shit, my job's on the line. Look, here's your fifty back. Beer's on me. Okay?"

"Tell you what. We'll let fate decide."

"Fate?"

John has a quarter in his hand. "Heads we go, tails we stay. Call it."

"Listen, I----"

"Call it!"

"Jeez...heads."

The coin is flipped. John catches it then lifts his hand to reveal---

"Heads it is. We're gone. Stay lucky, friend. You'll need to. We all will."

I follow John outside then stop and turn round. There is something I must do first.

I jump on the stage. All eyes are on me. Some of the men whistle. Do they expect me to dance and remove my clothing?

As if.

Instead I grip the steel pole and wrench it out. Some of the ceiling falls down. No matter. Now the dancers can dance without being obstructed.

I jump from the stage and hand the pole to the barman. His mouth gapes open. He is probably trying to find words to thank me.

"You're welcome," I tell him.

**-000-**

**Cameron misinterprets the finer points of pole dancing - if there are any. And like any normal bloke John relieves stress by heading to the nearest pub, or Yank equivilent.**


	18. Chapter eighteen

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

_Note: Includes references to previous chapters._

TUESDAY

His name is Ray Polger. Police Detective Ray Polger. He is seated behind Principal Snyder's desk while I sit in front. We are the only two people present. He called me out of class to tell me he is here at the school investigating the circumstances surrounding Louise Vandervelt's death.

This is a lie.

I have seen his badge. It says LVPD not LAPD.

Las Vegas Police Department.

I know why he is here. He knows why he is here. Neither of us will admit it.

Yet.

"It's hard to believe your young friend allowed her weight to drop to 85 pounds. What an awful waste of a young life." He shakes his head. "The things you girls will do for vanity."

He smiles reassuringly, offering a glimpse of yellowing teeth. Ray Polger is a human male in late middle age. I estimate he is at least 40 pounds above what a human of his age and height should weigh. His stomach strains against his shirt buttons. His hair is greying and starting to thin. Some humans age well. Some go to great lengths to preserve their youth. Others are like Ray Polger, vanity free and falling apart at the seams.

"Did you know Miss Vandervelt well?"

"No."

Polger nods, shifts his weight slightly. The front of his dark sports jacket gapes open affording me a glimpse of a tan holster. He is carrying a concealed weapon. A .38 handgun. It has rubber bands wrapped around the grip. I notice that occasionally his eyes leave my face and stare at my chest. It is possible he suspects I am also carrying a concealed weapon. He is mistaken. I am a weapon. There is no need for concealment.

"I hear you attended the funeral. That must have been very upsetting for a girl your age, to witness mortality up close and personal. Especially when you're bursting with youth and vitality."

He licks his lips and his eyes wander over my chest again. I decide the time has come to end the pretence.

"You are not here to investigate Louise Vandervelt, Detective Polger."

"Really?" Polger leans back in his chair. It creaks under his weight. "And what makes you say that, Miss Baum?"

"Your badge is LVPD. Los Angeles is out of your jurisdiction."

"Well spotted. Your principal told me you were an exceptional student in certain respects, observation is evidently one of them. Do you know why I'm here?"

"No," I lie.

He reaches down by his side and places a briefcase on the desk. The clasps pop open. I am ready should he extract a high-caliber weapon. But he doesn't. Instead he withdraws three glossy photographs and places them in a line on the polished woodgrain desk surface.

"Do you recognise these men?"

I examine the photographs. My facial recognition software pings immediately. I do indeed recognise the three men. They are the men who attempted to extort the money Becca Shaugnessy and I won in Las Vegas. It was necessary for me to terminate them. But I did not dispose of the bodies, merely leaving them where they fell. As humans sometimes say, it looks like this omission is about to return and bite me in the ass.

"I have never seen them before," I lie.

Polger nods. His eyes flick across my chest once more. Does he still suspect I carry a concealed weapon there of all places? The bulge would be a giveaway. Perhaps he is a fool, but I will not make that assumption prematurely. I need to know what he knows and what he thinks I know before I decide his fate. He has shrewd, hard eyes despite a soft body. If it becomes necessary to terminate then I may have to terminate Principal Snyder and his secretary also since both know I am here. In fact the whole faculty may need terminating to cover my tracks. And to cause a bloodbath on school premises would likely end up on my Permanant Record.

"The older man is Frank D'Angelo. They called him Frankie Dee or Frank the Duck."

"Why Frank the Duck? He does not resemble a duck. There is a marked absence of feathers."

Polger smiles. "Amusing. It's a nickname he picked up in his teens to do with his initials and how he styled his hair back then. A DA. Duck's Ass."

"There is a hairstyle called a Duck Ass?"

"Duck's Ass. It was popular before your time. Frank was low level mafiosa. Those types love their nicknames. Makes them seem romantic, heroic even when all they really are is jumped up thugs."

Mafiosi. A criminal organisation largely composed of Italian-Americans. Their long history scrolls down my HUD. It is a bloody history full of murders and violence. The human race were busy killing each other long before the advent of Skynet.

"The other two men are also known mob associates. You see, until nine months ago Frank D'Angelo worked as a pit boss at a Las Vegas casino. Perfectly legit far as we can tell, but in Vegas that's a line that's often blurred. Then they were discovered murdered in a Los Angeles warehouse down by the docks."

I remain silent. He is not telling me anything I don't already know.

"Frank was shot three times at point blank range. He didn't even draw his piece. Which suggests he either knew his attacker or felt he had nothing to fear from them."

"A fatal error."

"Yup. One you make only once. One of the other men had his neck broken while the other poor SOB -'cuse my language - had his skull crushed. He was identified by DNA. His face was...well let's just say even his own mother wouldn't have recognised him."

"What does this have to do with me?"

"Frank had a notebook on him when he died. It was full of names. Contacts. People who owed him money back in Vegas. He was running a loan shark business on the side it appears, lending to gamblers who couldn't obtain credit elsewhere and were prepared to pay the vig. Prime suspects, naturally, but we checked them all. Every one of them had an alibi. But there was one name we never could track down. A Cameron Baum."

I remain silent. His eyes flit over my chest again and back to my eyes.

"We assumed Cameron Baum was a man's name - no offence. But it's not on the grid. No priors, no nothing. Of course, we never thought to check the High School rolls for a teenage girl. Then this Louise chick dies in suspicious circumstances, the details go into the system and suddenly your name gets red flagged. Turns out you're the only Cameron Baum in the entire Los Angeles area. You believe that?"

"It seems plausible."

"So, mind telling me why a scuzzbag like Frank Dee should have your name written down?"

"I don't know."

"Ever been to Vegas?"

"No," I lie again.

"Owe anybody money?"

"No."

"Curiousier and curiosier. And I'll tell you what else is curious - the casino where Frank worked had someone walk off with a million dollar win at roulette about a month before he got iced. By the time I was assigned the case the security footage from the casino floor had been wiped. They only keep it for a few days before they record over. But the casino croupiers remember the woman well enough - they always recall the high rollers, especially the ones that win big. Young, long brown hair, pale skin, showed no emotion even when she won all that money. It's a description that fits you to a tee."

"And many females," I point out.

"True. You know this man?"

Detective Polger places another glossy photograph on the desktop. Again my facial recognition software pings. It is the biker, the man from the club parking lot whose Harley Davidson motorbike I stole. The last time I saw him he was face up in a dumpster, dead.

"He doesn't look familiar," I lie.

"Sonny Phelps. One of Los Angeles many resident low lifes. Drug dealer. Petty thief. Crib sheet as long as your arm. Found dead in a dumpster outside a titty - sorry, a gentlemans' club - on the very day Frank and co met their end. That little fact piqued my interest, you might say. Coincidence number two, his head suffered such severe trauma the coroner said his skull was in twenty seperate pieces, just like Frank's sidekick at the warehouse. Coincidence number three, the bar is less than a mile from your address. You live in a rental with your mother Sarah Baum and brother John, correct?"

"Correct."

"We have no security video footage of the parking lot. It's not that kind of place. People who go there to stare at puss---scantily clad ladies don't want to be observed doing so. But LAPD did track down an eye witness, a college student, who recalls seeing a young girl with long brown hair leaving on a Harley Davidson motorcyle of the type registered to Sonny Phelps. She was, and I quote, 'smoking hot with that huge hog between her legs.'"

"She was on fire?"

Polger smiles. "No, I think CHP might've noticed that."

"Have you traced the hot smoking girl or the motorcycle or the huge hog?"

"A hog is street slang for a motorcycle. And unfortunately not."

This is because it is buried in the desert along with the gun I used that day. Detective Polger doesn't know that. He will never know that. Unless I choose to tell him and then it will be the last thing he knows.

"Is there anything you want to tell me, Miss Baum? Anything you'd like to... " his eyes drop from my face again "----get off your chest?"

I want to tell him how close he is to losing his life. How trivial and unimportant these men's deaths are compared to the nuclear holocaust to come. How John complemented me on how nice my hair looked this morning and for some inexplicable reason this has made me feel like dancing. But I tell him none of these things. Instead I shake my head and ask, "Are you arresting me?"

"For what - having your name in a notebook? For looking like half the women in the world? No, I'm not arresting you. But I've a feeling, a hunch if you will, borne out of years of interviewing suspects, that you know more than you're letting on."

We lock eyes. He blinks first, shuffles the photographs and returns them to his attache case.

"May I leave now?"

"Be my guest. I'll be here in LA a few more days. Perhaps we'll cross paths."

Walking towards the door I sense detective Polger's eyes on my back. It makes a change from my chest.

* * *

John is full of questions as we ride home together in the jeep. News of a police officer on school premises swept the classrooms like wildfire, causing many unsubstantiated rumours to circulate.

"Half the football team took a sick day," John recounts with a grin. "Thought it was drug bust and they were going to be ordered to provide a urine sample. Those dumb jocks!"

I assure him no urine sample was requested. This is just as well since I possess no urine to be sampled. Perhaps I should borrow some next time?

When John has stopped laughing at what he appears to think was my attempt at humour, he asks, "What did he want? Are you in trouble? Is there something you haven't told me? Tell me. That's an order."

He listens to my story in silence. Occasionally his hands flex on the steering wheel, his knuckles showing white through the skin. Is this a good sign or a bad sign? I do not know; human emotions are still notoriously difficult for me to judge

Finally he looks me in the eye and says, "You realise mom is going to seriously freak out?"

* * *

HOME

Sarah Connor's lips compress into a tight line, splitting her face like an ugly scar as John retells my story. It is not a good look for her, for a woman of her advancing years. I try to tell her this but it seems to make her even angrier.

"Christ, John, you told me her friendship with this girl Brenda---"

"Becca."

"-----was harmless. It would help with her fitting in, to be less conspicuous."

"It has. Cameron tried to save that girl's life last weekend. That's got to be worth something."

"And yet she snuck off to Vegas, stole a million dollars and killed four people."

"Five," I correct.

"You're not helping."

"She didn't steal the money, she won it playing roulette."

"Don't be naive. People don't leave that town with more money than they arrive with. Vegas couldn't exist otherwise. And you know full well what she is and what she's capable off."

"Those men were criminals. They kidnapped her friend and held her for ransom. They would've killed them both. Or tried to. Cameron simply got her retaliation in first."

"And now we have a policeman investigating the whole thing. Just what we don't need."

"He has no proof. Just a few coincidences."

"Suppose he starts investigating us? Our IDs won't withstand a close examination, the kind of scrutiny the feds will provide."

"This guy isn't federal; he's a Vegas cop acting on a hunch."

"Go to your room and begin packing. We leave in the morning."

"No."

"What?"

"If we run now it's as good as admitting she's guilty."

"She is guilty, dammit!"

"The trail's cold," John insists stubbornly. "We just need to hold our nerve. And I'm sick of running."

Sarah Connor stares from John to me. "All right. We'll stay. For now. But if the cop turns up on our doorstep asking to see our papers they'll be no more arguments. Be ready to leave at a moments notice. And for all our sakes keep her on a shorter leash. If you won't I will."

She glares at me then goes up to her room. The door slams with just enough force to make the point: she is pissed.

John smiles at me and pats my hand. "You did good," he assures me.

"I did not participate in the conversation."

"Exactly."

* * *

**WEDNESDAY**

Morning. John locks the door of the safe house behind us as we prepare to leave for school. Sarah Connor is absent, out scouting for possible new locations should the worse come to pass and we have to regroup elsewhere.

"Got everything?"John asks. "Textbooks? Pens? Pencils? Urine sample?"

He cracks up. Evidently my errorof the previous day is still causing him some amusement.

John drives while I ride shotgun. This does not entail me literally riding a shotgun as I had once assumed. I merely sit in the seat next to his. He is correct; my assimilation skills are now much better and my understanding of human slang and vernacular vastly improved. I have come a long way, baby. Word to your mama/papa - delete as appropriate.

The journey to school normally takes twenty minutes, ten of which is spent on the freeway. Descending the off-ramp, John says quietly, "We have company. A tail. Someone's following us."

I check the wing mirror my side. A tan Chevrolet three car lengths back. I utilise my optic zoom function.

"Detective Polger. He is alone."

"Damn! Good job mom's not with us."

"Because she would seriously freak out?"

"No. She'd be insufferable because she's right. This guy's not going to just go away."

John pounds his palms on the steering wheel in frustration. "Are we carrying any weapons in the trunk?"

"An Uzi sub with extra magazines. A pump-action shotgun with rounds. Three Glock nine millimeter pistols with spare ammo."

"Is that all?"

"It seems like plenty."

"If we're stopped and searched we'll have a hard time explaining all those guns on a school run."

"Show and tell?" I suggest.

"In Compton, maybe. Not here."

"Then we should drive to Compton."

"I was joking."

"Oh. Should I laugh?"

"Laughing's optional."

"Then I choose not to."

"Everyone's a critic."

We enter a residential district that has several intersections each with a set of stop lights, slowing the morning traffic to a crawl.

"Take a left here," I instruct John as the light turns green. He complies, trusting my judgement. "Go round the block then double back."

"Why, what are you going---Cameron! Wait!"

I ignore him and exit the vehicle, walking quickly back to the corner. The tan Chevrolet slows for the turn. I walk alongside, open the door and slip into the passenger seat, startling Detective Polger who obviously wasn't expecting this gambit.

"What the---"

"Drive."

"What d'you think you're_---hey!"_

I insert my left leg into the driver's footwell, pressing my boot above Detective Polger's right foot which controls the gas pedal. We speed up.

"Okay, fun's over, girly. You need to stop what you're doing. Now!"

"You need to chill."

Detective Polger reaches into his jacket and draws his handgun. I swat it away. It clatters to the floor at the rear of the vehicle, out of harms way. His harm not mine.

"Shit, you nearly dislocated my shoulder!"

"You'll live."

I check the mirrors. John did as I ordered. The jeep is a block back and following us. Good.

We drive in silence. I maintain a steady thirty mph. Traffic thins out. We are heading away from school and towards the docks.

"You killed Frank, didn't you," Polger says, more as a statement than a question. "That's why he didn't draw his weapon. He thought you were harmless."

"He called me a twinky."

"And you made him pay."

"With his life," I confirm.

"What about the two who had their skulls crushed?"

"What about them?"

"The way I have it figured, you had an accomplice. Maybe someone with a baseball bat who didn't mind getting his hands dirty. I'm thinking your brother, John. That's him following us, isn't it?"

"I am responsible for all the deaths."

"Well well, seems you're full of surprises today, Miss Baum. You're a regular Ted Bundy."

Ted Bundy. My HUD provides a photograph and resume. A psychopathic serial killer. Am I being insulted or flattered? Perhaps both.

"Let me see if I've got it straight. You had some luck at the tables in Vegas, probably using a fake ID because of your age. Frank and his boys took note and followed you to LA. They leaned on you because they wanted the cash for themselves. How am I doing so far?"

"Very well."

"But you weren't the pushover they expected. You're obviously tougher than you look. So you could argue it was self-defense. Look, Miss Baum - Cameron - make a full confession to me and maybe it'll work out not so bad. You'll do jailtime, I'm not gonna kid you about that, murder is still murder, but with the extenuating circumstances, your youth, a sympathetic judge and maybe you're out by the time you're thirty. That's a pretty good deal. Whaddua say?"

What I say is nothing. Detective Polger sighs. He is obviously disappointed with my choice.

"Okay, sweetheart, I guess it's the hard way."

With a speed that belies his heavy bulk Polger reaches for something attached to his left ankle. A small two-shot Derringer pistol concealed in an ankle holster. He points the weapon at me.

"Small but deadly, and I will use it make no mistake about that. Take your foot off the gas and put your hands where I can see them."

I put my right hand where he can see it - over the muzzle of the gun.

Two shots. One after the other. The explosions loud in the enclosed space. The smell of cordite. My hand absorbs both impacts. I turn my palm over. There in a smudge of gunshot residue are the two bullets, neatly embedded in my pseudo-flesh. I prise them out with my left hand. They are flattened circles of lead, harmless. I drop them in the space between us.

"No more surprises, Detective Polger."

"W...Who are you?"

"Wrong question. Try - what am I?"

"What are you?"

"Nemesis."

I increase the pressure on the gas pedal. We are now travelling at 70 mph through a sparsely populated industrial estate.

"What are doing? Slow down."

The speedo reaches 100 mph. A nice round figure for what is to occur.

"You crazy bitch! If I lose control and crash you die too!"

"You would think."

Ahead of us looms the high concrete abutment of a warehouse loading bay. I reach over and twist the wheel. Polger tires to resist but I easily overpower him. The vehicle arrows in the direction I intend, straight to the scene of the accident.

Impact.

_...rending metal and shattered windscreen... tiny fragments of glass that glitter and hang in the air like galaxies spinning in the void...time appears to slow...multiple red warning lights appear in my HUD...damage sustained...system failures on a massive scale...repair functions falter and stall... overwhemed...default...shutdown...everything goes dark...everything..._

_...ends... _

**-000-**

**Cam explains why she terminates him like this in the next chapter. Was gonna make Polger corrupt and after the money but settled for sleazy and overweight.**

**Enough deaths and teen angst methinks. Time for a really fun chapter.**

**Next: Jameron.**


	19. Chapter nineteen

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

_**Note: Quick update for once. England's snowed under and apparently closed for business. Nothing to do but write...**_

_I..._

_I think..._

_I think therefore..._

_I think therefore I..._

_I think therefore I am._

I am Cameron Baum.

My reboot is complete. My HUD is awash with red warning icons. I am lit up like the 4th of July. I repair what I can while the others I either shut down or ignore.

Beside me Detective Polger does not undergo a reboot. Humans lack this facility. They are flesh and blood. Vulnerable. Mortal. Dead.

It is now difficult to tell the difference between Ray Polger and his Chevrolet automobile so intricately entwined have they become due to the impact of the crash. But there is no mistaking the blood which coats almost every visible surface in the crushed interior.

_"Cameron!"_

John's voice. Outside. I move to exit the vehicle but find my left leg trapped in the footwell. I hammer it free with my fists then pull myself out through the side window since the door is twisted uselessly in its frame.

"Cameron! Your face..."

"Get in the jeep," I order.

"But---"

"Now!"

My left leg drags as I move to join him. I am limping. Mobility impaired. A red icon blinks accusingly. A knee joint failure. No time now to undergo repair.

"Drive."

John complies then hands me a pair of sunglasses that were on the dash. "Put these on."

"The sun's glare doesn't bother me," I inform him. "I have filters."

"It's to disguise your eye. Look."

He twists the rear view mirror so that I can see my reflection. There are multiple lacerations to my dermal layer. My left visual array is visible, red glow and all. The pseudo-iris is dripping down my cheeks, black and viscous. I wipe it away with my hand and put the sunglasses on.

"Better?"

"Much. What happened?"

I hesitate. How much do I tell John? Detective Ray Polger was not a bad man. He was a police officer doing his job. But he was also a threat. To me. The Connors. The mission to prevent Judgement Day. Therefore he had to be terminated. It was, as humans say, a no brainer.

But neither John nor his mother would advocate or condone murder. That much I know from my time with them. I have no such scruples. Why would I? I am a machine. Sometimes there are advantages to this. We think more clearly. We do not let emotion or sentimentality cloud our judgement. We assess. We act. We kill.

"Detective Polger spotted you following us. He speeded up in an attempt to lose you. He had been drinking. His reactions were compromised. He lost control of the vehicle. He crashed. He has himself to blame."

John watches the road ahead. His jaw tightens and untightens. A sign of stress. Finally he nods, accepting my lies at face value.

"They won't link you to the accident?"

_Accident..._He has accepted my version of the truth whether he believes it or not.

"No. There will no evidence to suggest he had a passenger. No one could've survived such an impact and walked away."

"I'm glad you're okay. Relatively speaking."

"So am I. Relatively speaking."

* * *

HOME

I am perched on the edge of the bath in the safe house. Sarah Connor is still in Orange County scouting a secure refuge. John is bent over me using tweezers to remove the small embedded fragments of windscreen glass that have lodged in my pseudo-flesh. He places them in a neat pile in the soap dish. They sparkle like miniature diamonds.

"Are you sure you don't want Bactin for some of these cuts? You could get an infection."

"No. My dermal layer has built in anti-bacterial properties."

"Okay but your left eye's shot to hell."

"The damage is mainly cosmetic. The pseudo-iris will self-repair."

"How soon?"

"A few days, a week at most."

"You'll need to take time off from school. And wear an eyepatch or sunglasses. Even round the house. You never know who might come calling."

"Jehovah's Witnesses?"

"Yeah." John laughs. "This would scare them away. Permanently."

John is very close, his face just inches from mine. I can feel his breath on my cheek. It must be nice to breath, to feel the air inflate your lungs and then release it into the atmosphere. And do it again. And again. Over and over, careless and unthinking until you die. But there is always a catch. And with breathing death seems to be it. Perhaps I am better off as I am.

"And we'll need a cover story to explain these cuts on your face."

"Mauled by wolves?" I suggest.

"Too far-fetched."

"Lions? Alligators? Tigers? Crocodiles?"

"You were scratched by a cat. That'll do."

"A cat? One cat?"

"Sure."

"Not a wolf or a lion or an alligator?"

John stops. "Is this hubris I'm hearing? You're too proud to be scratched by a cat?"

"I am a terminator. We have standards."

"I'll think we'll stick with the cat story. And no embellishing."

"Did it have very sharp claws?"

"Okay, sure. If it makes you feel better. A big Cujo-cat with very sharp claws."

"Mighty talons capable of piercing solid steel."

"See, now you're embellishing. That's where you'll trip yourself up. Keep it simple. Little white lies."

"I would prefer big black lies."

"Sorry, no can do. Big black lies are out of stock."

"Can we order some more?"

We smile at each. John is the most relaxed I've seen him. I should crash automobiles more often.

"Take your pants off."

I freeze. Did I hear correctly? John slaps my leg.

"Come on. I've finished your face. Let me take a look at your knee. Take your pants off."

"Oh. My knee. My damaged knee."

I stand and remove my boots and jeans then sit back down on the edge of the bath. John bends down and examines my left knee.

"Not seeing any damage."

"The damage is internal. Bring me a knife from the kitchen."

John returns with a Sabatier knife, the type Sarah Connor uses during her miserable attempts at cooking. I make a t-shaped incision above my knee and peel back the flaps of flesh for John to inspect.

"Still not seeing anything."

"You need to remove the patella-guard. It is hinged. See."

The patella-guard hinges open revealing the inner workings of my knee."

"Ouch. It's pretty badly dinged up. I'll fetch my tools."

While John is gone I check my reflection in the mirror above the sink basin. Strips of flesh hang down from my face like neglected Christmas paperchains. I have looked better. That is for sure.

John returns. "Okay, I've got grips, pliers and an adjustable wrench. If we need cutting equipment we'll have to go to a chop-shop and rent some."

"Chop-shop?"

"Place where they fix automobiles. Hey, maybe get your face detailed while you're there." John smiles to show he is joking. He would never believe machines can be insecure about their looks. Nor would I. Until I met him.

John positions the grips inside my knee cavity and squeezes. The icon in my HUD remains stubbornly red.

"You are not squeezing hard enough," I tell him.

"Okay. Again."

The icon remains red.

"Squeeze harder. Remember you cannot harm me."

"Third time's the charm."

John squeezes the handles of the grips so hard his face goes red and tendons stand out in his neck from the strain.

The icon turns green. "Third time is the charm," I inform John.

"Thank God for that. Any harder and I'd have given myself a hernia."

He closes the patella-guard and gently replaces the flaps of pseudo-flesh over my knee. He makes no move to stand up. His hand runs over my knee several times then explores further up my thigh. Is John feeling me up? What does that even mean? I find I don't want this to end. I part my legs slightly and cross my ankles behind his back so that I have him trapped. Slowly I draw him in. He doesn't resist.

"I hate it when you're damaged," he whispers.

"I am not too fond of it myself."

"Your poor face. That dumb cop. Why can't they understand we do what we do to save them?"

If I was human I might feel a twinge of conscience at this point. But I am not human and therefore I don't.

"Do you need a reward to do what we do?" I ask.

"Wouldn't hurt sometimes."

I tilt my head, lean down and kiss him gently on the lips.

"What was that for?"

"Your reward."

"Do I get Air Miles?"

"You get me. Will that do?"

This time John's lips meet mine. We kiss for the longest time. All my icons begin to flash on and off in my HUD, cycling through the spectrum at random. A swift diagnostic shows nothing wrong. They are just happy for me.

My legs draw John nearer so our bodies are touching. My sensors indicate something is poking me in the stomach. I look down.

_Oh._

I begin to unbutton my shirt. John does likewise. I reach behind my back for my braclasp.

"I love you, John. Do you love me?"

"I----"

The doorbell sounds.

"Uh - I better get that."

Reluctantly I release him. He rebuttons his shirt, adjusts the front of his pants and leaves.

He is gone five minutes and ten seconds. It seems like an eternity. Then he returns.

"It's Kate."

"Kate Brewster?"

"Do we know another Kate?"

"One is sufficient." More than sufficient I don't add.

"You don't like Kate?"

I say nothing. Humans often say silence speaks louder than words and now I know why.

"Well, she thinks you're adorable."

"Adorable? I am a terminator. I don't do adorable."

"She thinks the way you follow me around is like a little puppy dog, cute as a button."

Adorable. Little puppy dog. Cute as a button. I hate her so much right now.

"Ah - last time we met we agreed to make this night movie night. That's why she's here."

"What is movie night?"

"Where we go to each other's house once a week and watch a DVD together. I forgot to mention it."

"I see."

"Listen, why don't you put your pants back on and I'll go find you an eyepatch then you can come and say hello. She likes you. She really does."

"The cute, adorable puppy dog?"

John shrugs and departs.

I take the solid steel wrench from the toolbox and twist it into a pretzel shape. I feel slightly better if I imagine it is Kate Brewster's neck.

* * *

MOVIE NIGHT

Kate Brewster oohs and aahs sympathetically when she sees my eyepatch and the lacerations on my face, which I have done my best to disguise with makeup.

"And a cat did this to you?"

"A Cujo-cat. With long sharp claws. Really more like a small lion."

John frowns; I am embellishing.

"How dreadful. You poor thing. See, this is why I have three dogs. Dogs are loyal and loving, while cats are just mean and nasty. Are you on any pain meds?"

"Should I be?"

"Uh - Cameron's a tough cookie," John interupts. "Very high pain threshold. You'd be surprised."

She would be more than surprised; she would be gobsmacked.

"Stay and watch a movie with us."

"I think Cameron has homework to do," John tells her.

"Nonsense. I insist. She'll love this movie. It's a chick-flick."

John groans. "You said it was about vampires."

"It is."

"How is that a chick-flick?"

"You'll see."

Great. Now I have to sit next to Kate Brewster all evening and watch a movie about chickens.

* * *

Humans need fear in their lives almost as much as they need air, water and food. Not the real gut-wrenching, adrenalin-pumping, bladder-emptying, screaming, running, bowel-churning real thing, of course. No, they are not that stupid. Almost, but not quite. Instead they seek an ersatz version of fear, sanitised and safe. They even invent things to provide the fake-fear real life cannot provide: ghosts, werewolves, zombies, aliens, phantoms and vampires.

The movie we watch is about vampires. Monsters who live among us but are actually dead. Who suck blood from living humans who are foolish enough to let them.

One such monster is named Edward. He is in love with a human but knows if his true nature should ever emerge he will surely kill her.

I know this person: me.

The human is named Bella who is in love with the monster despite knowing what he is and what he is capable of should he ever revert to type.

I know this person too: John.

I think I like this movie.

* * *

The movie ends. John clears away the soft drinks and the empty bowls of popcorn. Kate Brewster consumed most of the popcorn after John told her I was on a strict no carbohydrates diet. What a greedy pig she is. I hope it all goes to her thighs so that they rub together when she walks and the friction sets her on fire.

I do not think this likely.

Kate leans forward on the sofa and whispers to me, "Wasn't he a dreamboat?"

"Who - John?"

"No, silly. Edward."

"His predicament was fascinating."

"That lovely hair..."

"John has lovely hair."

"...those cheekbones..."

"John has cheekbones."

"What? Oh you're sticking up for your brother, Cameron. How adorable!"

_On fire on fire on fire..._

"He's British really, you know."

"John is British?"

"No, silly. The actor who plays Edward. In real life. Imagine him with a sexy British accent. Hmmmm..."

"You mean like this."

I begin talking in a British accent I picked up from watching PBS.

"John, come in here!" Kate yells, laughing. "Your sister's doing this amazing British accent. She sounds like the Queen of England! It's so cute!"

_On fire on fire on fire..._

* * *

Finally Kate leaves. John sees her out. I go into the kitchen and begin loading the dishwasher.

He is outside on the porch for a long time. They are probably kissing, embracing, hands roaming hungrily over each other's bodies----

_CRUMP!_

I look down to discover I have accidentally crushed the dishwasher into a small metal cube with my bare hands. Oops. I will tell Sarah Connor it malfunctioned and needs replacing. I wonder if I have voided the warranty?

John reenters the house. "Kate's gone."

"How were her thighs? Ablaze?"

"What?"

"Nothing."

"Did you enjoy the movie?"

I tilt my head to one side. "A monster loves a human who loves him back. What's not to like?"

John nods, smiling. "I never thought of it that way."

He heads up the stairs. "Well, goodnight...Edward."

I turn towards him. We make eye contact.

"Goodnight...Bella."

**-000-**

**No prizes for guessing the movie.**

**Glad some reviews questioned the morality of killing the cop. Yeah, I had qualms but I felt it was something Cam would do. Plus I needed the crash for this chapter to work.**

**Past chapters - from the cheerleader contest onwards - are all linked together like toppling dominoes.**

**Next: It's big. It's freaking big. And it's out there. And now it's found them...**


	20. Chapter twenty

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

WEDNESDAY

Tomorrow my pseudo-iris will have healed sufficiently for me to return to school. Sarah Connor is still away in Orange County scouting safe houses should Detective Ray Polger's death trigger further police investigations. It will not be the first time something has returned to bite me in the ass.

John has made no mention of the intimacy we shared in the bathroom nor made any attempt to repeat it. Perhaps he only fancies me when I am damaged? Such people are called sado-masochists. Is John an S&M freak? And do I mind if he is?

I decide I do not. Spank me, John. Spank me.

The good news is he is no longer in regular contact with Kate Brewster. Movie night is coming round again but he called and cancelled it, citing excess homework as an excuse. I know this is a lie because summer break is near and we both have very little homework. Perhaps John finally notices all the irritating traits Kate Brewster has? Like tucking her bare feet under her butt when sitting on the sofa as if riding a horse side-saddle. Or the way when she laughs her mouth opens so wide you can see her larynx. Or when the commericals are shown on TV she insists on humming the jingles. There are so many stupid things she does I could write a book about it.

Perhaps I will. I'll call it:

101 STUPID FACTS ABOUT STUPID KATE BREWSTER WHO IS STUPID

No, too long. I will shorten it to:

STUPID KATE

I will go on Oprah's Book Club and tell everyone how stupid she is and how John deserves someone better. Like me.

I will not do these things. It is what humans call wishful thinking.

Some believe in wishes, however irrationally: if you wish upon a star your dream comes true.

I glance out the window. It is day, the sky a bright shade of blue. No stars - at least none that are visible. But darkness will fall as it inevitably does.

Then I will make my wish.

It will involve Kate Brewster and a long, red-hot poker.

THURSDAY

There have been changes at school in my absence. Bags are now checked at the entrance for diet pills and illegal supplements as well as guns and knives. A legacy of Louise Vandervelt's premature demise.

One girl has her laxatives confiscated. She protests bitterly.

"But I need them! I'm all bunged up. I can't poop. I can't poop at all!"

I know how she feels.

Inside there is a large photograph of Louise pinned to the noticeboard. It is bordered by dozens and dozens of small squares of white paper all of which have writing on.

"They're memorial cards," Becca explains, greeting me. "You write what you'd like to have said to Louise if you'd had the chance. Here, read mine."

_Dear Louise_

_I will always treasure the times we spent together sharing our hopes and dreams. I pray that wherever you are you have found the peace and tranquility that eluded you in life._

_Bless_

_Becca_

"You should write one, Cam."

"No."

"Go on. Everybody has. Even people she was really really mean to - and that's most of the school."

I take a pen and a blank card and am about to write something when the pen is suddenly snatched out of my hand by a furious Alexis.

"This isn't for you! It's for her friends, not weirdos!"

"It's a free country!" Becca shouts. "You're not the boss of Cameron."

This is true. John is the boss of me.

"Keep your ugly ginger head out of this!"

"You really are obsessed with the colour of my hair. Why is that, Lex? We all know you dye your hair blonde. You get spray tans and schedule a bikini wax twice as often as the rest of us. Omigod - that's it! That's why. You're one of us! You're a closet-reddie!"

"NO! YOU LIE! I'LL KICK YOUR ASS!"

Alexis launches herself at Becca and they fall to the floor, arms and legs entangled as they struggle for dominance.

Human females rarely fight and seldom well. It is mostly slapping and scratching and hairpulling amid much shrieking. The pressure points on the human body where maximum pain can be inflicted are ignored. It is pathetic really. Pitiful.

I bend down and separate them lifting Becca with one hand while shoving Alexis away with the other. Alexus slides across the floor, bowling over several students before striking the wall at the far end of the corridor.

"Miss Baum!"

Principal Snyder arrives. He sounds mad.

"The three of you. My office. Now!"

* * *

PRINCIPAL'S OFFICE

The three of us sit in front of Principal Snyder's desk. He glowers at us.

"I could scarcely believe my eyes. Three students, three young ladies, brawling like thugs in front of the whole school."

"She started it!" Alexis blurts out.

"Are you retarded? You attacked me!"

"You called me a reddie!"

"It's not a crime to have red hair!"

"Well it should be!"

"Silence! I realise the tragic death of Miss Vandervelt has affected you profoundly, but that is no excuse for fighting in the corridors."

"But she started it!"

"Liar!"

"Enough! All three of you will do two hours detention after school today. Argue over who did what in your own freetime."

"But sir, cheerleading practice is every Tuesday and Thursday."

"Cheerleading is cancelled for the time being. I feel it is inappropriate given the circumstances."

"But that's not fair!"

"Miss Sternhagen, are you the principal of this school?"

"No sir, but----"

"Nor are you likely to be given your grades rarely rise above the mediocre. I understand you wish to attend Tulane? Then I suggest you concentrate on your studies and less on pom-poms for the foreseeable future."

"Yes, sir."

"Miss Shaughnessy. Your grades are better and your general demeanour much improved this semester. You're finally coming out of your shell. Don't backslide now."

"No, sir. Thank you."

"And the enigmatic Miss Baum. If half the things I've read about you on Facebook were true I'd be very concerned."

_"...Ulp!.."_

Alexis begins coughing.

"Something wrong, Miss Sternhagen?"

"You were on Facebook?"

"Yes, school principal's can use Facebook too, strange though it may seem. I came across a page entitled _we-hate-cameron-baum. _There I read the following, and I quote, _'I hate her she's a superstrong freaky freakazoid who eats babies and probably has a boy's dinkle.'"_

"I didn't post that!" Alexis shouts her face reddening.

"So you're not _superhotlexie911?"_

"Er---no. It must be another lexie who's - er- superhot."

"I'm pleased to hear it. Such malicious lies would deserve the gravest punishment. As for Miss Baum, your test scores in math and the sciences are the best I've ever seen. CalTech or MIT are well within reach. It would be a shame if your behaviour meant I couldn't recommend you to these august institutions."

Principal Snyder stares at me but I say nothing. CalTech and MIT will be radiactive rubble in a few short years, home only to small invertebrate creatures who bask in the warmth. August institutions? Hardly.

"Very well. You are dismissed. Please proceed to your classes in an orderly manner."

* * *

DETENTION

There are four of us in detention: myself, Becca, Alexis and a senior boy in a letterman jacket whose name I do not know but is on the school football team. Then a fifth person arrives.

"John!"

"Hey, Becca."

"What are you doing here?"

"I went to ask Snyder why my sister was in trouble and ended up calling him a jackass."

"You called Snyder a jackass? Dude, you rock!" the football player grins. "I'm here 'cause I mooned the hockey team."

_"Eww_, gross!" Alexis' face creases in disgust.

"Eat me, blondey."

"You wish!"

A teacher enters the classroom. He is tall and well built and wearing a tan jacket with leather patches on the elbows. I do not recognise him but then I have not met all the teachers on the faculty.

"Please remain seated. I am Mr Whitford. I will be taking detention today."

"Yo dude, where's Mr Wiesler?" asks the boy whose name I do not know. "Mr Wiesler normally takes detention."

"Mr Wiesler is unwell. I will now take rollcall. Please indicate if you are present or absent."

"Dude, how can we indicate if we're absent? Doesn't make sense."

"Shaughnessy, Rebecca."

"Here."

"Sternhagen, Alexis."

"Hel-_lo_? Duh!"

"Redman, Wayne."

"Yo!"

"Baum, Cameron."

"Here."

"Baum, John."

"Here."

Mr Whitford closes the register and reaches for something hidden beneath the lip of the desk.

A pump-action shotgun.

He aims directly at John and fires. John leaps sideways at the last possible moment. His desk explodes in a hail of wood splinters.

Screams. Shouting. Confusion. John in the doorway unharmed and yelling, "Everybody this way! Now! Hurry!"

The others scramble out the door. I move to engage Whitford. We grapple in the center of the room, causing desks and chairs to shatter into matchwood around us. Whitford is a T-888. Not the smartest terminator ever built but strong and durable. A more than worthy opponent. He slams me into a wall which collapses covering me with chunks of heavy masonry. Plaster dust fills the room and the T-888 is gone. After the others. After John.

I shift the largest pieces of masonry and stand up. Red warning icons blink in my HUD. My left arm is down to 83 per cent efficiency. A handicap sustained early in the battle. I must do better. I must prevail.

The corridor is empty. The nearest exit door has heavy chains around the handles. Whitford's doing. He is containing the prey - John. It is what I would have done had I been the hunter.

* * *

PURSUIT

At the next exit I find the footballer, Wayne Redman. He has the blank, glazed look that human's often acquire when subjected to severe trauma.

"Freaking teacher's gone postal," he tells me in a dull monotone voice. "I'm only here for flashing the hockey team. I didn't mean any harm and no one saw my wiener. I just flashed my butt cheeks. I don't deserve to get shot for that, do I?"

I agree it is a cruel and unusual punishment.

"Where are the others?" I ask.

"Freaking teacher's gone postal," he replies cryptically and turns towards the exit door.

This exit isn't chained like the previous one. Instead a cable has been spliced from the building's main powerline and attached to the metal door handles. A booby-trap. By clutching them he completes the circuit.

The human body is 70 per cent water and thus an excellent conductor of electricity. Wayne Redman's body stiffens then begins to vibrate. The air becomes tainted with the smell of ozone and scorching flesh. Smoke tendrils rise from his eyes, nostrils and mouth as the moisture is boiled from within by the immense release of energy. I do nothing. I do not feel fear but my kind are wary of high voltage electricity which can cause my CPU to shutdown and leave me vulnerable during the reboot.

It is over soon enough. Wayne Redman topples backwards and stares unseeing at the ceiling. His body continues to smoke.

One down.

* * *

I know Whitford's MO as if it is my own: contain, pursue, terminate. But I also know John's MO. He will attempt to find safe hiding places for the two girls then use himself as bait to lure Whitford away so the innocents can escape. John is always placing others before himself. He is foolish that way.

Without the daytime crush of crowded classrooms and students milling about in the halls and corridors the school feels larger than it normally does. This is an error of perception. The school's physical dimensions remain the same. But it is what John would call spooky.

Near the maths classroom, empty with its rows of computers silent and idle, I find a pair of girl's shoes. Black. Size 8. Becca takes this size while Alexis takes a size 10, a fact I know from the pedicure session at Louise's house. I hypothesize she lost them accidentally in the flight from danger or deliberately discarded them in order to run more freely. I conclude the former is more probable.

I turn a corner and spot a dead body lying in the middle of the corridor. Half the head is missing from severe gunshot trauma but I do not require my facial recognition software to make an identification. The long mane of blonde hair is sufficient.

Alexis.

Two down.

* * *

I reach a junction where the main hallway splits off into three corridors each leading to a different part of the school. There is no indication of which one John, Becca or Whitford ventured down. I will have to choose one and rely on luck, that most mysterious of human concepts, to lead me in the correct direction.

Or is there another way?

_The shoes..._

Becca is now barefoot. Her feet are warmer than the cold floor tile. I switch my visual display to infra red. Yes, faint but still visible are her smudged footprints, thermal traces that show up white in my HUD. They head down the left corridor. So do I.

The science block. A corridor. Two flights of stairs. Another corridor. The thermal footprints lead me on. Round another corner then--------

"Cameron!"

John and Becca. John is knelt before a classroom door trying to pick the lock. I switch back to my normal visual mode. The footprints vanish but they have served their purpose.

"Cam, open this door as quietly as you can."

The doors to the science block classrooms are kept locked when not in use because of the expensive technical equipment stored inside. But locks can be broken. I do so with ease.

"Do you have a plan?" I ask John.

"I think so."

"Is it dangerous?"

"The best ones usually are."

* * *

THE PLAN

Inside John goes from desk to desk opening the valves of the small gas nozzles that students use to connect bunsen burner's rubber hoses to in order to conduct physics experiments. The valves make a soft hissing sound as they slowly fill the room with gas.

"Everybody in the storeroom."

We squeeze into the storeroom at the back of the classroom.

"Is this door solid enough?" John asks me.

I examine the door. Thick plywood with a small glass window at head height. I have guessed what John has in mind and do the necessary calculations.

"I believe so. If I brace it."

"Good. Take off your jacket."

I do so. John stuffs it in the gap between door and floor preventing any gas from entering. Becca sits hugging her legs at the rear of the storeroom. Like Wayne Redman she too has a blank and uncomprehending look on her face. At least she is not crying. She is fond of crying. Too fond. There is a time and place and now is not it.

We wait. John checks his watch. Three minutes have elapsed.

"Okay, long enough. Ready?"

I brace myself against the door. "Affirmative."

"It's showtime."

John put his fingers in his mouth and expels air, emitting a loud high-pitched whistle. He does so four times. On the fifth the classroom door bursts open and Whitford enters. John allows himself to be seen in the door window. Whitford raises the shotgun and fires.

The gas in the room explodes.

The door splinters but holds firm with my help. The glass window shatters allowing a gout of flame to enter yet pass harmlessly overhead.

"Out! We don't have much time."

The classroom is wrecked. The force of the explosion has shattered the windows and set anything flammable ablaze.

"Flip it over!"

Whitford is flat on his back, his CPU in the process of rebooting. The explosion has flayed the pseudo-flesh from his body revealing the silvery endo-skeleton. What little flesh remains is on fire.

"How long?"

"A further 20 seconds before the reboot is complete."

John prises open the chip guard at the base of the T-888's neck. I extract the chip and toss it in the flames. It burns white hot then subsides to harmless ash. Its threat is over.

John and Becca are coughing. Smoke fills the room. The doorway we entered through is now ablaze, burning with an intense heat even I dare not approach without sustaining serious damage. For them it would be fatal. But so would staying where we are.

"Listen. We go out the window. It's our only option. Cam, throw the triple-8 out then follow it. Then Becca jumps and you catch her. Same with me. Go!"

Despite the inferno and the prospect of a hideous death John is calm and assured, instinctively issuing orders he knows are correct and will be obeyed. He reminds me of...him. Years from now. He is becoming Future John before my eyes, gradually assuming the mantle of greatness. If a machine could feel pride I would feel it now.

I do as ordered, my quadrocep-pistons easily absorbing the impact of landing. Becca is next but is being obstinate in jumping from a two-storey building. She is selfish that way. Finally John resorts to pushing her off. She screams and flails her arms until I catch and lower her gently to the ground where she sobs uncontrollably. John follows without delay.

"Hand me your car keys," he orders Becca. Then to me, "Pick that thing up; it's coming with us."

I stow Whitford in the trunk of the Maserati then join John in the front seats. Becca sits behind with a soot-stained face and bedraggled hair.

"What was that thing?"

"I'll explain later," John replies tersely.

In the distance comes the sound of sirens.

"Why aren't we waiting for the police?"

"I'll explain that later too."

"My feet hurt. I lost my shoes."

"I'll buy you a new pair."

"They're Chanel. Very expensive."

"Then you might have to settle for Crocs."

* * *

DESERT

Night. The desert beyond Los Angeles. Cold and barren, illuminated by the light of the full moon. Humans call it a Hunter's moon. Only this time the hunter has been defeated and the prey victorious. Don't you love it when that happens?

John steers the Maserati off the road and across the desert hardpan, stopping only when we are far enough from the highway not to be visible to passing traffic. He douses the headlights.

"Where are we?" Becca asks, peering out into the darkness. "This looks like the middle of nowhere."

We need to dispose of - ah - Mr Whitford."

"I'm not stupid. I know that thing isn't human. Tell me what's really going on or I'm going to start screaming."

"There is no one to hear you scream," I inform her.

"Oh God, you're going to kill me, aren't you?" Her lip trembles. "You're going to kill me and bury me in the desert!"

John says, "No one's killing anyone." He sighs. "Let me put Cameron to work then I'll explain."

We exit the vehicle. John pops the trunk and I remove the T-888 and lay it on the ground.

"Dig a hole and bury it deep," he instructs me. He glances at Becca watching from the car. "I'm going to have to tell her. Not everything but some."

"And if she goes to the authorities?"

He shrugs. "Then she does. I'm not in the business of murdering teenage girls."

"I----"

"And neither are you."

* * *

REVELATIONS

There is no shovel so I dig using my hands to scoop out the desert soil. No biggie.

John tells Becca as much as he dares. He keeps it simple: robots in human guise who will kill people to rule the world. He omits mentioning time travel or Judgement Day. He tells her the future is not set but winds ahead of us always tantalisingly out of reach the way a road unwinds beyond the cone of a vehicle's headlights, unseen and mysterious but there nonetheless guiding us. Solid yet malleable. Fate. In our hands.

Becca walks over to watch me dig the hole. She bends down and pokes at the ground with her fingers.

"This ground is hard as nails but it's like you're making sandcastles at Malibu. How can you do that with your bare hands?"

John tosses me a small penknife. "Show her. She deserves to know the truth."

I roll up my sleeve and make a t-shaped incision in my left forearm, peeling back the pseudo-flesh to reveal the inner workings. I flex my fingers so that she can see the coltan rods moving in their lubricated sheaths.

"She's like that thing. A robot."

"A TOK-275 class terminator."

"Oh God - my best friend's a robot and I never knew!" She begins to sob. "What does that say about me? I'm so stupid I don't deserve to live!"

John grips her shoulders and shakes her so hard that her teeth click together. This stops the sobbing.

"Listen to me. Cameron's programmed to protect me. But she chose you as her friend of her own free will. You know how rare that is? These things don't make friends. They're not sociable. They don't pal around. You managed something unique. You befriended a terminator."

"Really? Wait. She's a gay robot! Omigod - we showered naked together! She's a Lez-Bot!"

"She's not a Lez-Bo---When did you shower together?"

"After cheerleader practice. We don't go home smelly and sweaty. _Duh_. We're not boys."

"There are no gay robots."

"No Lez-Bots?"

"No Lez-bots."

"Not even switch hitters like Anne Heche?"

"No. Trust me."

"So what do we do now?"

"You're going back to school."

"What? No way! Suppose there are more of them?"

"There won't be. They know I won't return. You tell the police you managed to escape, then panicked and drove off."

"Suppose they ask about - _them_?"

"As far as you know Whitford was a crazy nut on a killing spree."

"Freaking teacher's gone postal," I add recounting Wayne Redman's final words.

"Suppose they ask about you and Cameron?"

"We got separated. You don't know what happened to us."

"Why can't I tell them the truth?"

"Because no one will believe you. My mom tried that and they locked her in a psyche ward."

"But Cameron could go on Oprah and cut open her arm and show people it's for real."

John shakes his head. "No."

"Then what are you going to do?"

"Move. Regroup. Fight back. Same old same old."

"Let me come with you. I won't be a burden. I'm still got most of the money we won in Vegas."

"It's no kind of life. And you've got family, school, college."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"Is this all Bill Gates' fault?"

John smiles. "No, it's not Bill Gates' fault."

"Steve Jobs? Because I'll ditch my MacBook in the trash."

"No single individual is to blame. It's just...however hard we try and whatever we do...shit happens."

* * *

DEPARTURES

We drive to a 24 hour vehicle rental agency in Burbank where John hires the largest SUV they have. I stay in the Maserati with Becca.

"I saw Alexis get shot. She's dead, isn't she?"

"Yes," I confirm.

"She lost her head."

"I know. It was all over the corridor."

"I mean she panicked and wouldn't go with John and me. She ran straight back into danger and that thing shot her. She never was very bright."

A single tear runs down Becca's cheek. She has cried so long and often recently that it is likely her internal reservoir is dry.

"She wanted to marry Zac Efron one day. I don't suppose that'll happen now."

I agree it is unlikely since this Zac Efron is likely to prefer a wife with a head.

"Poor Lex. First Louise now her. D'you think they're together up in Heaven?"

"I have no data on the outcome of human faith rituals."

"I bet they are. They'll be giving Jesus a hard time for wearing sandals and having a beard." She smiles sadly. "You wait, by the end of the week he'll be clean shaven and wearing Armani!"

We watch the night traffic flow past. Humans going about their ordinary lives oblivious to the threat they face to their very existence.

"So you've got a computer chip for a brain."

"Yes."

"That explains the math. What about languages? You kill at French. How many languages do you speak?"

"All of them."

"All of them? Even the weirdy Chinese ones?"

"I am fluent in ten Mandarin dialects and twelve Cantonese."

"Wow. And you'll never grow old?"

"No."

"No butt dragging along the ground when you're forty."

"Why would I drag my butt along the ground?"

"Gravity mostly. And Dunkin' Donuts."

"Who is Duncan Donuts?"

Becca smiles. "Doesn't matter. Can you fall in love or feel emotions?"

I hesitate. "No." I lie.

"Bummer."

"Yes. Bummer."

"Will I see you again?"

"It is safer if you don't."

"I don't care if you're a termy-nator. You're still my friend."

"I am?"

"We're biffs. BFF, remember."

John taps the side window and I get out and join him in the rented SUV. We watch as Becca puts the Maserati in gear and drives away, the green sportscar fitting seamlessly into traffic.

"Why did she think I was a Lez-bot?"

"I think she's been lonely for so long she found it difficult to believe someone could be her friend without an ulterior motive."

"I see. Thank you for explaining."

"I hope she keeps it together. The cops are gonna grill her hard. She's their only witness."

"Without evidence the police will not believe the truth."

"They'll lock her up in a psych ward."

"Then I will break her out."

John glances sharply across at me. "How come?"

"We're biffs. BFF, remember."

"Right." He smiles. "Best Friends Forever."

"Oh," I say, surprised. "Is that what it means?"

* * *

The safe house is dark and empty. Before we go inside John calls Sarah Connor in Orange County to inform her what has occured. Predictably her orders are blunt and forthright: get the hell out of Dodge. We are not in Dodge, a large urban connurbation in Kansas, but I deduce she wishes us to leave immediately.

"You grab the guns and ammo and I'll collect our clothes. Leave the kitchen stuff; we'll buy new."

With all the guns and ammunition stowed the SUV rides noticeably lower on its shocks. John arrives with two heavy suitcases which he places on the back seats.

"Mom called again. It's all over the news channels. Apparently the science block burned down. That's good news."

"It is?"

"If they think we perished in the fire they won't coming looking for us. Who goes looking for dead people?"

I agree it is a fruitless task.

"And Whitford really was a teacher. He was a supply teacher here in LA. I guess the Triple -8 killed him and assumed his identity. Just like Cromartie in New Mexico."

"Where we first met."

"Yeah. They're repeating themselves pulling the same stunt twice."

"If at first you don't succeed..."

"Try try again. Maybe it's time to give school a miss. Fly under the radar."

"Won't you miss school?"

"Oh yeah, it's a real heartbreaker."

I sense sarcasm but say nothing.

"Ready to roll?"

I need to retrieve something."

Hurry up. I want to be on the Interstate before it gets light."

* * *

In my room I reach under the bed I never slept in and withdraw my journal from its hiding place. What started as a school project is now fat and bulging with recollections of my activities over the past year. It has been interesting to document my life in this manner, ink on paper instead of bytes in RAM. It has made me feel almost...human.

**-000-**

**I presume American schools have bunsen burners? In England we have gas taps on the desks where you attach the rubber hose. If not, my bad.**

**Wayne Redman. First to die. Red-man. Trekkies will get it.**

**This is where I planned to end it. But I am writing more chapters. Sometimes you think you're done with a story but the story's not done with you. **


	21. Chapter twentyone

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SATURDAY

The new safe house is situated in a quiet residential neighborhood less than a mile from the beach. If I adjust my audio receptors to maximum I can detect the faint sound of surf crashing against the distant shoreline.

John makes no comment on Sarah Connor's choice of locale; he is brooding over no longer being able to contact Kate Brewster. She will have seen the media reports of us perishing in the school fire. To contact her now would be to breach our anonymity, something he argues for with his mother who swiftly vetoes the idea. I take no part in the discussion and my opinion is not sought. However, the prospect of Kate Brewster no longer littering the place with her presence makes me want to dance.

The nearby beach is popular with surfers - peculiar humans who balance on long fiberglass boards they use to skim across the waves. I ask John why they choose to behave in this manner.

"They do it for the buzz mainly."

"Buzz?"

"The kick. The high. The sheer thrill of it. Haven't you ever felt a buzz?"

"I buzz only if there is a loose connection, then I fix it."

"I guess you won't be hanging out at the beach much."

"No. I dislike the beach."

"How come?"

"Sand. It is abrasive. It gets into...crannies. It is very tricky to remove."

"Crannies, eh? I can imagine."

John smiles for the first time that day. Was it something I said?

Sarah Connor selects the master bedroom for herself. John calls dibs on the second largest bedroom before I can react leaving me with the attic room, cramped and smelling faintly of mothballs. I hang my clothes in the wardrobe and hide my secret diary under the mattress of the bed I shall never sleep in. Oh well, at least I have a nice view.

The house shares a wide driveway with the house next door. When we arrive this driveway is empty. By the time we have unpacked and chosen rooms there is a vehicle parked beside our SUV; a small white convertible. John says it is a seventies-vintage VW bug. There are long fiberglass boards propped in the back suggesting it belongs to the peculiar humans who surf.

On the lawn next door is a girl wearing a black rubber swimsuit and not much else. She is bent over and using a hose to wash her long dark hair. I watch her do so. She looks up and says, "Take a photograph, why don't you. It'll last longer."

"I don't have a camera," I inform her.

She grunts a reply.

"Why are you using a yard hose to wash your hair?"

"To rinse the salt out."

"You put salt in your hair?"

"No, the Pacific Ocean put salt in my hair, I'm trying to rinse it out before it makes my hair frizzy. I hate frizzy hair."

"Me too," I admit. "Hair is hard to get right."

The girl shuts off the hose and straightens up. She has the sort of round, attractive face with full lips that I once heard Becca Shaughnessy describe as a heartbreaker. Although hearts are very hard to break. It is simpler just to squash them. Perhaps she is a heartsquasher?

"Make yourself useful and unzip me."

She turns around to indicate a zipper running down her back. I lower it.

"Thanks."

She shrugs the upper half of the rubber swimsuit off her shoulders and leaves the sleeves to dangle uselessly round her waist. Her torso is firm and tan with medium-sized breasts contained and concealed in a blue bikini top. She is mucho buff, I tell her.

"Thanks again. I suppose you must be the new neighbours? I'm Alys Ramirez. That's Alys with an Y and an S."

"I'm Cameron. That's Cameron with a C and an A and an M and----"

"Are you making fun of me?"

"No."

"Well, don't." She coils the hose and drapes it over the standpipe. "I hope you're an improvement over our last neighbour, old man Dreyfuss. I'm pretty sure he used to take pictures of me sunbathing. Perv."

"Why did he take pictures of you?"

Alys frowns. "Most men consider me attractive. But I'm gay so it's a non-starter. I prefer gash."

"Why are you gay?"

"What - you think something traumatic happened to turn me off men? Get real."

I'm not sure how I can get any realer than I already am so I opt to say nothing.

"You live with your folks?"

"Mother and brother," I confirm.

"Hey, me too. Pop flew the coop when I was little. No great loss by all accounts."

The door to Alys' house opens and a teenage boy emerges. He stops still when he sees me and smiles.

"Oh wow, if you're here then heaven must be missing an angel."

Alys snorts. "_Barf! _You really think that corny line is gonna work?"

"It might. Give it a chance."

"Cameron, this is my brother, Jerold. He's a douche, by the way."

"Hello, douche," I greet him.

"Er - I prefer Jerold or Jerry, if you don't mind."

"Cameron just moved in next door."

"Cool! But isn't Cameron a boy's name?"

"Yet I am obviously a girl therefore your question is illogical."

"Illogical?" Jerold laughs. "I think we've got ourselves a Trekkie."

Trekkie? I do not know what this is. My chassis serial number is TOK-715. Perhaps I am a Tokkie?

The door to the safe house opens and Sarah Connor emerges. She glances in my direction then climbs into the SUV and drives away down the street.

"Wow, is that your mom?" Jerold asks. "She's hot."

"Think you've got a shot at her too, little bro?"

"Better shot then you."

"Puh-lease. She's too old for me."

"Ageist."

The door opens a second time and John steps out. He walks over to join us.

"What's going on?"

I make the introductions. John and Jerold high-five in greeting.

"Dude, we just saw your mom. She is smoking hot!"

"Hey!"

"Seriously, dude, it has to be said. She is one fine cougar."

"Seriously,_ dude_, shut the hell up. That's my mom."

"I hear you, man. My bad."

"You'll have to excuse my horny brother. His sole ambition in life is to deflower Miley Cyrus."

"And Taylor Swift. Don't forget her."

"Hey - hands off, dweeb! Taylor's mine."

"So," Jerold asks, "You guy's into surfing?"

"I'm more into skateboards and trailbikes."

"That's cool. How 'bout your sister?"

"Cameron doesn't like the beach; she has a sand phobia."

"Sand phobia? Man, that's crazy talk. How can you be phobic of the beach?"

John smirks and glances at me. "She has her reasons."

"What do you like, Cameron?"

"I like guns," I admit.

"Guns?" Alys grimaces. "I hate guns. The NRA can kiss my ass."

"The NRA has four point three million members," I inform her. "Do you wish them all to kiss your ass? It will require time and much forward planning."

"Ha! She's got you there, sis."

"Bite me."

Bite me is an expression not an invitation. I will not make that mistake again.

Alys asks, "You gonna go to our High School?"

"Don't know yet," John replies. "I think maybe we're getting a home tutor."

"You're not missing much," Jerold states emphatically. "Girlwise it's a dogpound."

"He's only saying that because they turn him down for dates."

"Yeah, I think my natural machismo scares girls away."

Alys laughs so hard she is a little bit sick.

* * *

Indoors as the light begins to fade, I ask John his opinion of our new neighbours.

"They seemed nice enough, though the brother was a bit full on. I didn't care for the way he spoke about mom, like she was a piece of meat."

"Sarah Connor is an attractive, fertile human female."

"Don't you start."

"She ticks a lot of boxes."

"What's that mean?"

"I don't know," I confess. "Becca once said it about Alexis. She ticks a lot of boxes."

"As far as I'm concerned the only box being ticked is the one marked mom."

"Do you think Alys is attractive?"

John glances at me. "Uh - I guess. She is beautiful."

"She doesn't like boys; she prefers gash."

John doesn't reply, merely nods. His face reddens slightly.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"What is gash?"

* * *

MONDAY

I am in the shower. Hot water cascades through my hair and down my naked body. I seldom shower since my pseudo-flesh repels dirt and has an anti-bacterial agent that means I never smell bad. I am unlike humans who require regular showers or baths to rid themselves of accumulated dirt and the secretions of their many glands. However, my hair does need occasional washing; it attracts the taint of pollution, and thanks to its many automobiles Los Angeles is a very polluted city. I do not wish my hair to smell like a tailpipe.

The door opens and closes as someone enters the bathroom. I can see their outline through the opaque shower curtain. I run shape comparison software which indicates it is Sarah Connor, not John.

Pity.

Had it been John I could've invited him to join me in the shower. I think he would enjoy that. I know I would. But not Sarah Connor. No. That would be gross.

"Don't use all the shampoo!" Sarah Connor yells above the sound of running water.

I glance at the shampoo bottle. It is empty.

"I won't," I lie.

"And don't use all the hot water. There are other people in this house too."

"I won't."

"And put your wet towels on the drying rail when you're done. Don't leave them in a wet pile on the floor."

"I won't."

She is such a fusspot. John says this is a Good Thing. It means she is treating me less as a machine and more like a daughter. Sometimes I don't mind being treated like a machine. Less nagging.

The door opens and closes and I am alone once more. I turn off the hot water, step out of the tub and towel myself dry. I place the wet towel on the drying rail as instructed.

I am so whipped.

* * *

Summer has arrived in California which means the decision whether or not to send John and I back to school can be deferred until the Fall.

Mid-morning Sarah Connor enters my room and without asking opens my wardrobe and rummages through my clothes. Perhaps she wishes to borrow an item of mine to wear herself?

"Nothing will fit you," I tell her. "You are several sizes too large."

She frowns but says nothing. I can tell she is not pleased because the vein on her forehead begins to pulse. It is not my fault my clothes will not fit her. That is the way the cookie crumbles. Mostly in her mouth. Fewer cookies equals smaller clothes. QED.

"You need some new outfits," she informs me.

"I am happy with the outfits I have."

"Well, I'm not. It's hot out and you're still walking around in boots and leather jacket."

"I don't feel the heat like you do. I don't sweat out my tops like you do. I don't stretch out my pants like you do."

"All right! I get it, you're special. But you need new clothes to fit in with what other people are wearing. You're no good to us if you're conspicuous. We're going clothes shopping. Now. No arguments."

* * *

SHOPPING

The clothing store Sarah Connor selects is large and full of racks of clothes designed solely for human females, of which I am an honorary member thanks to the design of my outer dermal layer based on a human Resistance fighter named Allison Young. We head straight to the summer dress aisle.

"What size are you?" Sarah Connor asks. "Size six?"

"Size two," I correct her. "I would be swamped in a size six."

She mutters something under her breath which sounds like 'skinny metal bitch'.

A flowery print dress is chosen and handed to me.

"Here. Try this on."

I pull my top over my head and start to undo my belt.

"What are you doing?" Sarah Connor asks.

"Trying the dress on."

"Not in the middle of the shop!"

"Why not? Oh. The human nudity taboo."

"Or common sense, as we call it. At least you wore a bra."

"The twins like to be snug."

I undress in the appropriate area: the changing room at the rear of the store. Another girl is there trying on a pair of jeans. She is trying to see the reflection of her rear end by peering over her shoulder. "Do these jeans make my butt look big?" she asks me.

"It is not the jeans," I inform her. "Your butt is 33 per cent larger than the norm for a female of your age and height. You have major booty, girlfriend."

She utters several rude words and departs.

I am pleased to have been of assistance.

I don the dress picked for me and return to the main shop floor. Sarah Connor insists I twirl around so she can inspect me from all angles. A shop assistant wanders over.

"Ooh, your daughter looks simply lovely!" she gushes. "I love her pale skin. So many girls show up straight from the beach with skin the texture of leather. Your skin is for life not just the summer."

"Yeah, she's a regular porcelain doll. We'll take this dress in every colour you have," Sarah Connor orders.

"Yes, ma'am!"

"Do you stock Havaianas?"

"Second aisle on your right."

Havaianas turn out to be rubber-soled thong sandals. Sarah Connor picks up three pairs.

"Now you can ditch those old boots."

"You expect me to wear these?"

"Why not? They're very fashionable."

"Fashionable but not badass."

"Not everything has to be badass."

She is mistaken. I am a terminator. I am badass or nothing.

But there is no arguing and we exit the shop 22 minutes later laden with shopping bags, one of which contains my boots, jeans and leather jacket. Sarah Connor insists I wear one of the dresses we purchased. It has thin spaghetti straps and a pink floral motif. It is not badass. Not even close.

* * *

John is in the kitchen when we arrive home. He looks up and grins broadly.

"Hey, mom, who's your new friend? Not seen her before."

"You have seen me many times," I correct him. "It's me, Cameron." Perhaps he requires glasses?

"Not dressed like that I haven't. Are you wearing thongs? Man, I thought those boots were welded on."

"My boots were not welded on. You are thinking of my head. My head is welded on."

John is enthusiastic about my new wardrobe, smiling broadly at each new dress produced from the bags.

"Glad you like it," Sarah Connor tells him with a smirk. "Because I'm taking you shopping next."

John abruptly stops smiling, informs his mother he has work to do in his room and hurries upstairs. I hear him close and lock the door.

Why didn't I think of that?

* * *

AFTERNOON

With John apparently barricaded in his room I head outside for some fresh air. I do not actually require fresh air, or stale air for that matter, since I lack the requisite lungs. But Sarah Connor is hinting at taking me shopping for accessories and I think it prudent to put some distance between us.

Our neighbor, Alys Ramirez, is on her front lawn waxing her surfboard. Like John, she looks up and sees me and begins to smile broadly.

"Howdy, Miz Scarlet. Why ah do declare, you is home from Atlanta looking purttier than a Junebug in that there dress. Mr Ashley is gonna be mighty pleased!"

I tilt my head, curious. Is she having some sort of seizure? She is making absolutely no sense.

"Just kidding. Mom take you shopping?"

"Yes."

"Don't worry. Come with me. I'll sort you out."

We get into her VW bug and reverse out of the driveway.

"Where are we going?" I inquire.

"The Fanny Locker."

* * *

The Fanny Locker turns out to be a large wooden shack several miles down the coast and so close to the beach people walk in and out still dressed in their swimwear. It is full of clothes very different from the store I visited earlier. There are no floral print dresses. I like the place already.

"Cool, isn't it, " says Alys. "I buy stuff here all the time. It's surfer chic for surfer chicks. No corporate Nike bullshit here."

The clothes all have oddly named labels: Hot Wax, Fat Face, Lavalamp, Animal, Freaky Frog, O'Neill, Redordead, Rocket Dog, Drunkymunky.

Alys hands me a crop top. "Here. Try this for size. It's so you."

"Where is the changing room?"

"There isn't one. It's the Fanny Locker not Bloomingdales. Strip, no one cares."

I remove my dress and begin trying on crop tops. Alys nods or shakes her head at my selections. I trust her judgement.

"Okay, enough with the tops. Try some jeans. Here, these are Teddy Smith's."

"Won't he want them back?"

"Who wants them back?"

"Teddy Smith."

Alys laughs. "That's really funny!"

It is? I wonder why.

I try on seven pairs of jeans and keep four, including Teddy Smith's; if he doesn't want them I do.

"Bikini tops," Alys announces. "A girl can never have too many bikini tops."

I choose four. Alys adds a fifth made from some type of animal skin.

"Leather. Trust me. Feels great against your skin."

We place my purchases on the backseat of the VW bug and begin the drive home.

"Tell me a bit about yourself, Cam." Alys says as we head onto the freeway.

"What d'you wish to know?"

"How old are you?"

"17."

"Are you on Facebook?"

"No."

"Twitter? Bebo? MySpace?"

"No. No. No."

"God - you're so last century! I know - I'll tell you a secret about myself then it's your turn. Um...I lost my cherry to a supply teacher when I was 15. We did it in the janitor's closet at school. She was really really old - like 26. Okay, your turn."

My CPU provides me with five possible secrets to divulge:

1) I am a non-human cybernetic organism

2) I am from the future

3) On Judgement Day there will be a nuclear holocaust

4) I have terminated over 100 human lives

5) I like Steven Seagal movies

I make my selection.

"My secret is I like Steven Seagal movies."

"_Eww_! With the creepy ponytail? Okay, but that's not really a secret, Cam. I'll go again to loosen you up. When I was 5 my father went away for the first time and my mother told me he was a roadie for Fleetwood Mac. But he was really in prison for trying to rob a bank. The big loser. Okay, you're up."

"I don't have a birthday," I confess.

"Huh - you mean you don't know your birthday, like you're an orphan or something?"

"Yes."

"So your mom isn't your real mom and John's not your real brother?"

"Yes."

"Oh you poor sweet thing! Big hugs!"

Alys is silent for 37 seconds then:

"You like movies, Cam? Seen _Jennifer's Body _with Megan Fox? She's totally hot."

"I know Megan the fox. She is on Jake's wall."

"Is Jake your boyfriend?"

"He is a boy, yes."

"Do you go on dates and kiss and stuff?"

"Jake and I will go on one date, kiss for the first and last time, then he will die."

"Heavy_ shit!_ I knew I was gay practically straight from the womb. But it's not all I am, right? It doesn't define me. I'm more than that. I'm loyal to my friends; I love my brother even when he's an idiot; I'm kind to animals; I go to church every Sunday and I haven't been struck by lightning as punishment for being different. I figure Jesus still loves me even if I chew pink."

"Chew pink?"

"Sorry, am I creeping you out? I didn't mean to."

"No, you're not creeping me out."

"And one day I'm going to try and save the world."

I stare directly at Alys. "I am also trying to save the world."

"Because Climate Change sucks, right? We have to do something now before it's too late. Man, we are so _simpatico_, you and I. _Absolutimo_. See, I speaka da Italiano."

She doesn't but I don't bother correcting her.

"Thank you for assisting me today," I inform her.

"Totally my treat, babe. I got a wettie just watching you undress."

"That's good?"

"It's better than good," she grins, "it's golden."

We pull into the driveway. Alys kills the engine and turns to me. She appears suddenly bashful, nervous even, quite unlike her previous confident self.

"Cam, can I tell you something?"

"What?"

"I think I'm a little bit in love with you. Do you mind?"

"Why would I mind?"

She grins, her normal self again.

"That's so freaking cool!"

"It's better than cool," I tell her. "It's golden."

**-000-**

**New beginnings. The OCs, Jerold and Alys, don't have huge parts to play but they make a neat foil for Cameron. More Sarah too; I like the way she and Cam butt heads occasionally, almost like real mother/daughter.**


	22. Chapter twentytwo

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SUNDAY

The markings on the ground are simple yet deceptively complex. A geometric grid pattern I have not seen the like before. I stare at it intently. Is it a mathematical equation? Ancient symbols of the Mayan culture? A primitive calendar devised by the Navajo, the native American tribe that once inhabited this area of Southern California?

I do not know.

I run these theories and more through my database, comparing and contrasting, cross-referencing where possible. Nothing matches. It is a mystery. My kind does not like mysteries; we are creatures of cold, hard logic.

"Wanna play?"

I swivel my head. A human infant female has joined me. She indicates the markings on the ground that so perplex me and repeats:

"Wanna play?"

"You know what these markings are?"

"Sure._ Duh!"_

She must be possessed of great wisdom. Perhaps she is a prodigy, a human capable of impressive feats of intelligence.

"What are they?" I ask her. "Mayan? Aztec? Navajo?"

"Hopscotch."

"Scottish?" A celtic tribe from the British Isles.

"Hopscotch, doofus."

"Hopscotch doofus?"

"It's a game, silly. You wanna play or what? I gotta go soon. Mom's in the toilets with my baby brother. He can't take a whizz on his own yet."

She giggles at the word whizz. I don't know why. But I must concentrate on the markings. Will its mysteries finally be revealed to me?

"Show me hopscotch doofus. Show me its secrets."

The child picks up a small stone and tosses it expertly into one of the geometric boxes marked on the ground. She performs a sequence of hops and jumps, picking up the small stone while balanced on one leg, then hops and jumps her way to the end.

"See? Easy-peasie. Your turn."

I copy her actions, tossing the small stone then hopping and jumping until I am balanced on one leg. I look to the small girl for guidence.

"You're doing great," she encourages me. "Now pick up the stone. Careful, this is the tricky part."

My gyros keep me balanced on one leg as I bend over to pick up the stone. I repeat the sequence of hops and jumps until I am clear of the markings. I have succeeded. I have mastered hopscotch doofus.

"Yea! You did it!" The girl claps her hands and smiles. "My turn! My turn!"

We take it in turns to play hopscotch doofus until a woman with an even smaller child emerges from the toilets building adjacent to the parking lot.

"There's mom. Gotta go. My brother's done his whizz." More giggles. "I hope he doesn't smell of poo this time. I hate it when he smells of poo."

I agree it is not a pleasant aroma, especially if you lack nose filters as most humans do.

She waves farewell. I wave back.

"Thank you for teaching me hopscotch doofus."

"No problemo. Maybe next time we can play skip-rope. See ya!"

I continue to play the game on my own, refining my technique, until John emerges from the supermarket pushing a shopping cart laden with groceries.

"There you are. I wondered where you'd got to." He frowns. "Why are you standing on one leg?"

"Hopscotch doofus."

"Did you just call me a doofus? Quit it and come and help me load the groceries."

Reluctantly I do so.

"They didn't have the brand of Doritos that I like, you know the barbecue sauce ones," John complains. "Can you believe it?"

I can. I see no reason why he would lie to me about Doritos. What would be the point of subterfuge over an absent brand of cornbread snack?

"I had to get nachos instead."

"Bummer," I commiserate.

We load the SUV and prepare to leave. The hopscotch doofus lies deserted and idle.

I miss it already.

TUESDAY

Cameron Baum is dead.

So is John Baum. It is official. We both perished in the school inferno caused by the crazed ex-teacher, Mr Whitford.

Or so the police report states. There is even a memorial service held in our honour, and Alexis Sternhagen and Wayne Redman, the two actual victims of the Whitford terminator's attempt to kill John.

It is therefore imperative that we assume new identities. Since dead people do not require driving licenses and credit cards, to continue using the Baum name will soon attract unwanted police attention.

There is one person we know who will provide us with all the counterfeit documents we need - for a price.

Enrique.

But Enrique is dead, which is likely to adversely affect his ability to do business. No matter. His place in the LA underworld has been taken by someone we have also had dealings with in the past.

Chola.

* * *

Chola agrees to meet with Sarah Connor at a neutral venue: a parking lot in Van Nuys. John is to stay home while I accompany her as backup should Chola attempt a double-cross and sell us out to the police.

I assemble a selection of guns laid out on the kitchen table that we might take with us. I favour the Glock nine millimeter as weapon of choice.

"No guns," Sarah Connor announces. "We go unarmed. No sense provoking her on a business meet." She frowns." What are you wearing? Crop top and jeans? Where are the pretty dresses I bought you?"

"In my wardrobe."

"Go and put one on."

"But these jeans are Teddy Smith's," I protest.

"I don't care if they're Teddy Roosevelt's, go and put on a dress."

I go upstairs and put on a blue dress with tiny spaghetti straps. It has spangly flowers all over.

"Isn't that better?" Sarah Connor asks as I return.

"My legs are bare. I feel naked."

"You're a machine; you can't feel anything."

She can be very cruel sometimes.

* * *

CHOLA

There is a long black limousine in the Van Nuys parking lot. It's headlamps blink once as we pull up alongside it. Sarah Connor and I exit our SUV and climb in the back of the stationary limo where Chola awaits us dressed in a tight-fitting black business suit. She looks very different from the girl who once slouched against the hood of an automobile trying to look tough.

"I was expecting you to call."

"Were you now?" Sarah Connor smirks. "You must be psychic."

"No, merely watch the news." Chola smiles at me. "You look healthy for someone who burned to death."

"I scrub up well."

Sarah Connor says, "Let's cut to the chase. We need new documents, same deal as before."

"Not quite. The price has changed. Seventy-five thousand."

"Sixty."

"The price is non-negotiable."

"All right. Seventy-five. I'll need some time to----"

"You have until Friday. Midnight. Cash. The girl comes here alone."

"What? Now wait a minute---"

"Non-negotiable." She smiles at me. "Nice dress."

* * *

HOME

"Why does she want Cameron to go?" John asks when told of the meeting. We are sat around the kitchen table. There is a large vase of flowers in the center that wasn't there before we left. In fact, there appear to be several vases of flowers dotted around the house. Strange. Sarah Connor is not normally not a flower person. She prefers guns, though she doesn't stick them in vases.

"Mind games. You should have seen her sat there like the cat who swallowed the cream."

"We could always try somewhere else."

"Where, John? A street corner dopedealer? They'd sell us out in an instant."

"And Chola won't because..?"

"I think she suspects what I am capable of," I say. This gets everyone's attention.

"Why? Did she say something?"

"A hunch."

"Machines have hunches? Nonsense. It's a loose wire if anything." Another dig from Sarah Connor.

"If Cameron's right then we could be walking into a trap."

"We have no choice. It's a risk we have to take."

"Wrong," I say. "It is a risk I will take. If she tries anything I will crush her like a mug."

"Ah - you mean bug, Cam. The expression is crush her like a bug."

"Oh."

The doorbell sounds. Sarah Connor rises to answer it. She smirks at my mug remark. She really is sticking it to me today.

* * *

From the kitchen John and I overhear the conversation between his mother and the person who rang the bell.

_"Good day, ma'am. UPS. Package for you. Please sign here."_

_"Oh you have got to be kidding me!"_

_"Uh - no, this is the correct address."_

_"This has gone beyond a joke."_

_"Ma'am, if I could just get your signature---"_

_"Does he really think this is going to work?"_

_"If you could sign---"_

_"I'm going to have a chat with that boy's mother!"_

"What is it?" I ask John.

"It's the boy next door, Jerold. He keeps sending mom flowers."

"Why?"

"Isn't it obvious? It wasn't just bravado the other day. He's smitten."

"Smitten? With Sarah Connor?"

"I know. Mom's not too happy."

_"Not that it isn't flattering but enough's enough. Take them back. He lives next door."_

_"That's not how it works. He posts, I deliver, you accept. It's the UPS way."_

_"This is absurd!"_

_"Listen, lady, I've got a hundred deliveries still to make. It's 85 degrees and I'm pulling extra shifts because my landlord hiked the rent. Now give a brother a break and sign for the frigging package!"_

The door slams. Sarah Connor returns to the table. She slams down a large bunch of white roses.

"Mystery admirer?" John quips.

"Thin ice, John. Wafer thin ice."

"Flowers make the house smell pleasant," I tell her. "Shall I put them in water?"

She suggests an unusual alternative.

"But they will wither and die if I put them there," I point out. "And I won't be able to sit down."

"What's wrong with the boy? What is he - fourteen?"

"Seventeen. He and his sister Alys are twins. He's ten minutes younger than her."

"I'm twice his age. Can't he see that?"

"He thinks you're a cougar."

"Cougar?"

"A sexy older woman."

"Oh dear lord!"

"He's not such a bad kid when you get to know him. Maybe a little headstrong."

"Kid being the operative word. And I'll take your word for it."

"Jerold surfs and hangs out at the beach. Didn't you like the beach at his age? You once told me you hitched to Zuma to hang with the surfers."

"That was then this is now."

"It's been what - two years since Charley Dixon? Twelve if you count the timejump."

"That was before they showed up again. And you're not seriously suggesting I date the boy?"

"Of course not. I had the same reaction you did. How dare he hit on you, on my mom. Then something Cameron said made me realise I was being selfish."

"Something she said? You're taking relationship advice from _her_?"

"What I'm trying to say is I want you to have as full a life as possible. In all aspects."

"And Jerold? Where does he fit into this lifeplan of yours?"

John smiles. "Is it so terrible a teenage boy finds you attractive? Being a cougar's really kind of a compliment."

Sarah Connor gestures at me. "Go ahead. Put the flowers in water."

"Not up my---"

"Water."

* * *

FRIDAY

Midnight. Van Nuys. Chola is waiting for me in the back of the limousine, wearing the same slim-fitting business suit as before. I am in jeans and a crop top. I managed to sneak out without Sarah Connor seeing me.

"No dress?" Chola smirks. "Pity. You have nice legs."

She hands me a manila folder. I extract the counterfeit documents and examine them. They are good. Very good. Indistinguishable from the genuine articles. I hand over the money.

"Is it all here?"

"Of course."

She counts it meticulously, the nailpolish on her long fingers showing black in the vehicle's subdued light.

"Good."

I rise to leave.

"Wait."

I sit back down. Apparently our business is not concluded.

"I'll pay double what she's paying you to come and work for me."

"I am not paid a penny."

"Name your price."

"I have no price."

"There are fringe benefits to being in my employ."

"What are fringe benefits?" I ask, curious.

"Luxury apartment. Decent set of wheels. The very best of everything money can buy."

"No."

I again rise to leave, opening the door.

"There are people looking for you," Chola whispers. "Offering large sums of money for information."

I sit back down. "Who? And what have you told them?"

"Nothing. I don't deal with their kind. Tell your boss I'll ask around and give her names and addresses. For a price."

"What price?"

"You do a job for me. A one-off. Tell her. Tell Sarah."

* * *

I tell Sarah.

"That scheming bitch! She tried to_ hire _you?"

"Mom, it's not important," John says impatiently. "What did she mean - not dealing with their kind?"

"You think it's_ them_?"

I shake my head. "We do not pay for information. We torture and kill."

"Then who - the cops? They think we're dead."

"No bodies, remember."

"The heat was too intense. We burned up."

"Maybe forensics told them different."

"So what - we let Cameron do a job for her? It's gonna be illegal whatever it is."

"I know. But we need those names, John. We need to know what we're up against. I'll arrange a meet."

"I want to go this time."

"Fine. You and her. I'll hold the fort."

The doorbell rings. Sarah Connor groans. "Oh not again!"

* * *

_"Hi, Sarah! Man, you look crazy hot. Did you do something to your hair?"_

_"What d'you want, Jerold?"_

_"There's a really cool band playing the Roxy tonight. Puke Attack. I thought we might go see."_

_"A date? To see a band called Puke Attack? Seriously - Puke Attack?"_

_"They sound like early Nine Inch Nails. Oh - these are for you."_

_"Chocolates? Oh Jerold..."_

_"Sweets for my sweet."_

_"Aren't there any girls nearer your own age you can invite? Girls who might actually enjoy seering a band named Puke Attack?"_

_"Nope. Just you. You captivate me, Sarah. If I said you have a beautiful body would you hold it against me?"_

_"Jerold, how can I put this so you'll understand? Get lost. Go away. Now. Before I bust you up real bad."_

_"So that's a definite maybe for tonight?"_

**-000-**

**Again, I presume Americans understand hopscotch?**

**Puke Attack. Not an actual band - as far as I know. Don't think I'd want to be in the mosh pit (!)**

**Note the faint stirrings of a plot...**


	23. Chapter twentythree

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

WEDNESDAY  
I am stood at the window of my attic room, silent and immobile, looking down at the street below. Night has given way to dawn. I observe and record, ever vigilant, a witness to all that occurs outside the safe house.

At 6.03 the lawn sprinklers at numbers six, nine and thirteen switch on, sending irridescent fans of water spray across plants and parched grass alike. The sprinklers are automatic and will switch off in precisely one hour.

At 6.17 the joggers begin to appear. These are humans who run for recreation and fitness. They are predominantly female and dress alike in trainers, spandex shorts and cotton singlets. One woman carries weights, small dumbells in each hand. Possibly she imagines she is so thin she will float away if not weighted down. She has obviously never heard of Isaac Newton or gravity.

At 6.35 the couple across the street, Frank and Marge, discover fresh dog excrement deposited on their porch step. Their voices, loud with indignation, carry across to me on the still morning air.

_"Holy cow, will you look at the size of that!"_

_"Oh dear lord, that is so gross!"_

_"It's that SOB Kowalski from number nineteen."_

_"Are you sure, hon? It looks like a dog to me."_

_"Of course it's a dog! It's his freaking Alsation. You don't honestly think Kowalski came over here, dropped his pants and did a steaming one, do you?"_

_"I didn't know what you meant!"_

_"I know he's Polish but even they know how to use toilets. It's definitely his Alsation."_

_"It's just awful!"_

_"I bet he laughed his head off."_

_"Can dogs laugh?"_

_"Not the dog! Kowalski. Get a grip, Marge."_

_"Me? I'm not touching it!"_

_"Not that kind of grip! Know what I'm gonna do? I'm gonna post it to him."_

_"Don't be absurd, Frank. You'll never get a stamp on it."_

_"Not through the mail! I'll scoop it up and pop it in his mailbox. See how he likes it."_

_"I don't know, hon. This is a nice neighborhood. I don't want you starting a Poop War."_

_"I'm not starting a Poop War. But this will not stand, Marge. This will not stand."_

Frank and Marge go back inside their house still squabbling, their voices receding with distance. Humans are an aggressive species and can enter into conflict over anything, even poop apparently.

At 6.46 the paper boy enters the street on his daily route, weaving across road and sidewalk on his Schwinn bicycle. He delivers newpapers by flinging them at the porch doors. Sometimes his aim is accurate while other times the papers fall short, land in the bushes or on one occasion on top of Mr Gomez's porch roof requiring him to climb a stepladder to retrieve it, all the while cursing in fluent Spanish.

At 6.58 Mr Cabot from number seven kisses his wife goodbye and sets off for work. He is dressed in an immaculate suit and tie and drives an immaculate silver BMW. He works for the aerospace industry. Mr Cabot also steals underwear from washing lines in the middle of the night. I have observed him doing so. He steals only female underwear, presumably for his wife. I don't know why she can't steal her own underwear, or buy it for that matter since her husband earns a large salary from his job in the aerospace industry.

Mystery upon mystery. The daily warp and weft of human life played out before my eyes. Fascinating yet puzzling in so many respects.

At 7.09 I hear John get up in the room below mine and enter the bathroom. At 7.15 the toilet flushes. Good. It is important to be regular.

Ask Mr Kowalski's dog.

NOON

John and I sit across from Chola in the back of the limo. It is my third time here; John's first. Nothing much has changed. She seems as smug as ever.

"Why don't we get down to it and you tell us what you expect Cameron to do."

"Forceful. Like your mother."

Chola opens a black attache case and removes a glossy colour photograph of a tall apartment building.

"This is Regent House in Bel Air. A man lives in the penthouse. Let's call him...Vladimir. Vladimir has a wall safe in his study with an attache case similar to this one locked inside. I want her to steal it for me."

"That's it? You think we're common criminals? Why don't you do it yourself?"

"Because if Vladimir thinks I'm involved he will have me killed. Very slowly. And this isn't a common crime. It is an exceptional one."

"What's in the case?"

"I can't divulge that. And if you open it the deal's off."

"So we've got to trust you?"

"If you want the names of the people seeking you."

"What makes you think we can do this stuff?"

"I think she can do anything she pleases."

"And why d'you think that?"

Chola shrugs. "Call it a woman's...intuition."

John sighs. "Okay. Deal. But if this is a double cross you're gonna be one very sorry lady."

Chola produces a small mirror covered with thin lines of white powder. She offers it to John.

"Refreshment? To close the deal."

John knocks the mirror from her hands, spilling the white powder over the carpeted floor.

"You have a pretty nose. Don't ruin it."

* * *

PLAN

Home. It is late but no one feels like going to sleep, least of all me of course.

John has spent an hour researching online facts about Regent House and 'Vladimir', the mysterious penthouse occupant.

"This is what I've discovered," he tells us. "Vladimir is actually Oleg Kristov, a Russian oligarch living here in LA. Billionaire, naturally. He's an arms dealer, so he's no babe in the woods. Oleg has a Howard Hughes complex; he hasn't left his Bel Air apartment in two years. Anything he wants he just orders in. He owns the top two floors of Regent House, where a duplex will set you back around three million dollars."

"I have a question," I announce.

"Yes, Cam?"

"Do I have a pretty nose?"

"Huh?"

"You told Chola she had a pretty nose. Do I have a pretty nose?"

"Uh - sure, it's fine."

"Fine but not pretty?"

"Okay, you have a pretty nose. Are you done?"

"Yes. Please continue."

Sarah Connor smirks but says nothing. John appears slightly flustered.

"Ah - where was I?"

"Oleg Kristov?"

"Right. The problem's going to be getting Cameron inside to bust the safe. The guy has a small army living in the apartment below the penthouse. There's a private elevator strictly for Kristov's use only. Anyone who turns up uninvited is probably going nowhere fast."

"What about women?" Sarah Connor asks. "Does he order them in too? We could disguise her as one of his paid sluts."

"Won't work. Kristov has a mistress, a Russian model named Katerina Markov. She's six feet tall and weighs like 95 pounds. Cameron could never pass for her."

Did John just suggest I'm fat? And short!

"What d'you suppose is in the briefcase?"

John shrugs. "Money? Drugs? I don't think it really matters as long as we get the names."

"What do we do now?"

"As soon as it's light Cameron and I will go and check out Regent House, see if there are any weaknesses we can exploit."

"Why can't I drive there, go inside and get the briefcase?" I ask. "There's nothing they can do to stop me."

"Firstly, you'd get shot up pretty bad, I think. And there are security cameras all over. The cops and maybe the feds would get involved. We don't need to advertise we're still alive. I think stealth is the way to go on this one."

"I agree with John," Sarah Connor states. "You obey his orders, understand? I don't want the police, the FBI and Russian mafia on our trail because you got trigger happy."

"I have another question," I announce.

"What is it, Cam?"

"Is Katerina Markov prettier than me?

John groans, shuts his eyes and pushes his fingers through his hair.

Yes, definitely something I said.

* * *

FRIDAY

Noon. A hot day in Bel Air. John and I are sat in airconditioned comfort inside the SUV, parked in a gymnasium parking lot which affords a view of Regent House. John has been holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes for 16 minutes.

"Two guards on the front desk. No guns I can see but they're built like Ferrigno."

"Ferrigno?"

"The Hulk. Green skin, huge muscles."

"The guards have green skin? Are they sick?"

"I...uh, forget it. Let's test how good the security is."

He takes out his cellphone and dials.

"Hi, Domino's Pizza? Yeah, I'd like to order a pepperoni pizza, extra cheese extra olives hold the anchovies. My name is Oleg Kristov. K-R-I-S-T-O-V. I live at Regent House, Bel Air. Top floor. If you're here in fifteen minutes there's a fifty dollar tip."

Ten minutes later a pizza delivery van pulls up outside the building. The delivery guy enters the vestibule.

"Oops, looks like Oleg doesn't like pizza."

As we watch the delivery guy is physically lifted off the ground and flung out the door.

"No way we're going in through the front entrance. Let's check out the roof."

* * *

ROOF

"We are very high up."

"Fifteen stories. Scared of heights?"

"No, just wary of falling."

"Join the club."

"There's a club?" I ask, surprised.

"Just an expression."

"Humans have a lot of expressions. It is hard to keep up."

John and I are on the roof of the apartment block opposite Regent House. The security here is lax; I only needed to break three locks and reroute a simple alarm system to access the roof.

"No sign of life over there."

We have the perfect vantage point to observe the penthouse. Its tinted windows are dark and even my optical sensors cannot see inside. There is a flat paved area on the roof's south side. Tables and chairs suggest it is used for entertaining.

"Hot up here. No shade."

John is perspiring profusely. The roof is bare; nothing but pipes and ventilation shafts over an asphalt surface. It is close to 100 degrees fahrenheit. John will not be able to stay long without suffering dehydration. I will not suffer that problem. Nothing to dehydrate.

"See that flat area? That would be a good place to go in from. If we could get there."

"We could fly a helicopter over and land," I suggest.

"Two tiny snags. One, no helicopter. Two, no pilot."

"I can fly a helicopter."

"Since when?"

"Since you taught me, remember?"

"Not so much."

"Twenty years from now you---Oh."

"Right. Oh. Future John teaches you. Anything else he - I - teach you?"

"Fly-fishing."

"Fly-fishing?"

"I'm a natural, apparently."

John is silent, staring across the rooftops. He hates to be reminded of Future John. I am the same person but he is not that man. Yet.

"See that railing over there? If we had a grappling hook and some rope d'you think you could throw that far?"

I activate my targeting graphics. A grid overlays my HUD. I run simulation software.

"The range is 109 yards. Headwind 9 knots. Probability of success: 89 per cent."

"Good odds. You could slide down the rope and be in and out before the muscle even knew you were there."

"Sounds like a plan."

John grins. "It does, doesn't it."

**-000-**

**Shortish chapter. In Rome for the rugby. Froze my butt off. Dolce vita, my ass!**


	24. Chapter twentyfour

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

TUESDAY

There is a police car in the street. A black and white cruiser. Two police officers are inside, armed and therefore dangerous.

I select two pistols from the armoury, ensure they each have a full clip of ammo and shove them in the waistband of my jeans.

The police motto is: protect and serve.

Mine is: protect and serve John Connor. And therefore takes precedence.

"Cameron, wait." John blocks the door as I attempt to leave and intercept the threat.

"Waiting will only enable them to send reinforcements."

"Just cool it. I don't think it's us they're here for."

We observe from the window as the two policemen leave their vehicle and knock on the door of the house opposite, the home of Frank and Marge, surname unknown.

"See? Aren't you glad we waited?"

"It might be a trap. A feint."

"I don't think so."

Frank answers the door. Immediately the police spin him round and cuff his hands behind his back. They escort him to their vehicle and push him in the back seat. Marge, Frank's wife, appears crying and pleading for his release. She is ignored. The police car drives away. Not for one moment did the officers look in our direction. John was correct. They were no threat to us. He has saved at least two lives today.

"I wonder what that was all about?" John muses.

We find out five minutes later when Sarah Connor slips in the front door.

"Did you see the cops?"

"Yeah. What's going on?"

"You won't believe it. That guy they arrested---"

"His name is Frank," I interupt.

"Okay. That guy Frank apparently posted dog faeces to the man at number nineteen."

"His name is Kowalski," I explain.

"Yeah. Only Kowalski caught him doing it. There was a huge argument and someone called the cops."

"Why would he do that?" John ponders. "Why would anyone do something like that?"

"Who knows?" Sarah Connor shrugs.

I know. It appears Frank started a Poop War after all. And lost. To the victor the spoils? On this occasion I think not.

* * *

The incident with the police leaves everyone on edge - except me, of course. I don't do edge.

To combat stress Sarah Connor repeatedly strips and reassembles an AK-47 on the kitchen table. John fidgets on the sofa using the TV remote to channel-hop, his concentration never settling on any program for very long. Tonight is the night we will attempt to steal the briefcase from Oleg Kristov's well-guarded safe. The tension is palpable.

I spend the afternoon in the shower. I am using a new brand of shampoo that contains extracts of Jojoba oil. John has complimented me on how shiny my hair is looking and I am keen to make it even shinier so he will pay me more compliments.

The instructions on the shampoo bottle say rinse and repeat. Repeat how many times? It does not specify. I rinse and repeat seventeen times, getting through three bottles in the process. I hope it is sufficient.

I step out of the tub having used all the hot water, all the shampoo and so many wet towels they will not all fit on the drying rail and lie in a soggy mess on the floor.

Sarah Connor is not going to be pleased. But I will gladly face her wrath if it means one compliment from John.

Needy much?

I'm afraid so.

* * *

THE HEIST

We leave the house at dusk, tooled up and ready for action.

Outside, Jerold Ramirez is working on the engine of the VW Bug. He looks up hopefully when he notices Sarah Connor.

"Hi, Sarah. I was wondering whether you'd like---"

"No, Jerold."

"You didn't listen to what I was going to say."

"If it involves you and I doing something together the answer is always no."

"At least give me a chance!"

"No, Jerold."

"But---"

"No."

Jerold's shoulders sag in defeat. He doesn't even bother to watch us drive away. I think she finally broke his spirit.

* * *

Bel Air. 2.00AM. John, Sarah Connor and I are on the roof of the apartment building opposite Regent House and Oleg Kristov's penthouse. We are each dressed head to foot in black in order to blend in with the darkness. I am wearing a black beret so my newly shiny hair is not readily apparent. Bummer.

"Okay, Cam, you're up."

I pick up the grappling hook we have brought with us and prepare to throw it towards the railings 109 yards away. It is an impossible distance for a human to contemplate. Just as well I am not one.

"You only get one try, remember."

"John, shut up and let her concentrate."

I throw the hook. It soars through the night sky trailing its rope behind. It clears the railings by six inches.

"Good job! Pull the slack in slowly."

I do so and tie it off round a sturdy ventilation shaft.

John places a pulley on the now taut rope. "Okay, in and out then we pull you back. Got your gun?"

"Yes."

"Use it only as a last resort. And only shoot to wound. According to Chola the safe's behind a painting on the study wall."

"I will find it."

I grab hold of the pulley and slide down the rope. Below me are the empty streets of Bel Air. Expensive automobiles are parked at the kerbside, oblivious to my passage above.

I thump into the railings which bend slightly upon impact but don't collapse. I climb over and on to the roof patio.

The access door to the penthouse is made of toughened glass. It is locked and my sensors detect a strong electro-magnetic field indicating it is alarmed.

No matter.

The glass shatters with a single blow. I switch to night-vision mode. Everything glows green in my HUD. I am in the study. A slice of luck to find it so soon. There is the painting. My database informs me it is a Picasso, from his Blue period, and worth approximately 5 million dollars. I toss it aside as if trash.

Behind is a rectangular safe with a three inch thick steel door. I yank it off with the ease of someone popping the lid of a Pringles tube.

Inside are stacks of money in various currencies. And a black briefcase. I remove it and strap it to my belt. Things are going well.

The door bursts open and three men enter and begin shooting.

Okay, not so well.

Heavy machine gun fire rakes the walls and reduce the Picasso to shreds. There is much confused shouting in Russian. I raise my gun and shoot one man in the leg, another in the shoulder and the third in the groin. He screams the loudest for some reason.

Time to leave.

I retrace my steps, grip the pulley and feel myself being dragged across the gap by John and his mother. Behind me more shouts in Russian. A gun opens fire, slamming bullets into my butt and legs. Soon I am out of range. Home free.

Someone cuts the rope.

Oops.

I fall fifteen stories and land on a parked car. This absorbs much of the impact, though my HUD is suddenly awash with red warning icons as systems overload.

There is a silver Mercedes at the nearest intersection waiting for the lights to change. I smash the glass and drag the startled driver out through the side window. I trust to John and Sarah Connor's ability to avoid detection and drive away heading back to the safehouse.

* * *

RECOVERY

My pants are off and I am lying face down on the kitchen counter while John examines my bare butt. If I were human this would be embarrassing. But I am a terminator so---

Who am I kidding? It is still embarrassing.

"Some of the bullets were hollowpoints and disintegrated on impact with your endo-skeleton," John explains. "This might take some time. Are you sure you wouldn't prefer mom to do it?"

"She has cold hands."

"That's a joke, right?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"I just thought given the circumstances..."

"I trust you."

"Okay, let's get started."

John use tweezers and narrowpoint grips to remove the embedded fragments of lead. Apart from the damage I sustained the evening went well. John and his mother did indeed escape without drawing the attention of the police or Russian bodyguards. And we have the briefcase.

"Just spoken to Chola on the phone," Sarah Connor announces as she enters the kitchen. "She wants to trade. Usual place."

She hardly gives me a glance. Perhaps she considers it normal to for her son to be delving into a girl's naked bottom with a pair of pliers?

"Aren't you curious what's in the case?" John inquires.

"Of course. But the deal was no peeking. If we break the locks she'll know."

She walks over and stares down at me.

"You did good tonight."

"Thank you." Praise from Sarah Connor? Very rare.

"Will the damage heal quickly?"

"Within a few days."

"Good. I'm going upstairs to monitor police radio broadcasts. John, when you're done try and get some sleep."

John fills two glass tumblers full of lead fragments before he declares, "That's all. You can get dressed now."

I don fresh jeans then join John in the living room. He has the stolen briefcase on his lap.

"It's a four-digit combination lock. That's 9,999 possible combinations. Shouldn't take that long to figure out."

"Your mother said not to open it."

"What mom doesn't know won't hurt her.

* * *

Two hours and twelve minutes.

This is how long it takes to stumble upon the correct combination. The locks pop open and John peers inside.

"Oh wow!"

"What is it?"

"Eggs."

He twists the case so that I can see.

Nestled in foam are indeed three eggs. But these were never laid by hens. They are gold and glitter with inlaid jewels.

Faberge Eggs.

Made for the Russian Tsar Alexander III in the late 19th century, my database informs me. The highest recorded price sold at auction for a Faberge egg is $18.5 million dollars.

And we have three of them.

* * *

EXCHANGE

John persuades his mother that he and I should go by ourselves to meet Chola. I have a feeling he wishes to confront her over the Faberge eggs and doesn't wish Sarah Connor to know he opened the briefcase against her express wishes.

Chola is seated in the back of the limo, seemingly calm and composed as ever. Only this time I sense it is an act, a facade; her heartrate is 120 beats a minute, twice the average. With my enhanced audio it sounds like a bass drum. She is clearly excited by this meeting.

"You succeeded."

"You doubted us?"

"Doubted her? Never."

John taps the briefcase he holds on his lap. "You know, I prefer my eggs sunnyside up."

A frown. "You looked."

"I was curious." John shrugs. "My bad."

"That wasn't the deal."

"Fine. If you're gonna be picky we'll keep the case. Deal's off."

"NO! WAIT!"

"My, aren't we keen?" John smiles. "Three Faberge eggs. One thought to be lost forever. Virtually have very expensive taste."

"They're not for me. I am merely the gobetween."

"For a percentage?"

A nod.

"If this comes back to bite us Cameron will probably want to shoot you. And I won't necessarily be in a hurry to stop her. Are we clear?"

Another nod. Heartrate 180.

"Give me the names of the people after us."

Chola hands over a single sheet of A4 paper. John glances at it then folds it away in his pocket.

"This all?"

"You have my word."

He hands over the briefcase.

"Combination's 3724."

Chola twirls the dials with trembling fingers. The case opens, she closes her eyes and moans with pleasure.

"Okay, I think we're done here."

"Wait. We make a good team - me, you and the girl."

"Not mom? She'll be disappointed. She always liked you."

"Really?"

"Nah. She hates your guts. We all do."

"You don't have to like me to work for me."

"We don't have to work for you, period."

"I can protect you from the people seeking you."

"You have no idea what's seeking us. Be thankful for that."

John exits the limo with me following. I pause in the doorway and wait until Chola looks up.

"Your nose isn't that pretty," I tell her.

* * *

EVENING

John places the sheet of A4 on the kitchen table for Sarah Connor and I to peruse. On it is written in neatly typed block capitals:

NSA AGENT JAMES FOSTER

NSA AGENT KAREN DUFFY

57 AMBROSE STREET

CULVER CITY

LOS ANGELES

"The NSA? They're the ones after us?"

"So it seems."

"I don't understand," I announce. "What is enn-ess-eh?"

"N.S.A. It's an acronym. It stands for National Security Agency. These guys are the top rung of law enforcement. They make the FBI look like mall cops."

"And they're after us."

"I researched Foster and Duffy on the web. As you'd expect there's not a huge amount there. Foster's 48, logged 20 years with the NSA. He's a career spook. Duffy's a rookie. I think this is her cherry assignment. They work for the Homeland Security department."

"So we're terrorists now."

"It's a catch-all title covering everything from terrorists to refugees crossing the Rio Grande."

Sarah Connor paces the room. "What do they have on us, I wonder?"

John shrugs. "No way of telling unless we pay them a visit."

"We're not poking a stick in a hornet's nest."

"So we sit back and wait for the hornets to sting us?"

"They might have nothing."

"Or everything."

"We're well hidden. Off the grid. New IDs. And we have her."

"We can't always rely on Cameron."

"You can rely on me, John," I tell him. "I will always covet your ass."

"Cover. You mean cover my ass, not covet."

"A Freudian slip from the Tin Miss," Sarah Connor smirks. "We'll discuss this another time." She yawns. "It's been a long day and I for one am going to try and get some sleep."

She goes up to her room. John smiles at me.

"How's your butt? Healing okay."

"Yes. Would you like to see?"

"Er - raincheck."

I nod. I will hold him to that - next time it rains.

**-000-**

**Faberge eggs? It'll become clear in a few chapters.**


	25. Chapter twentyfive

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

TUESDAY

I am at the supermarket, my turn to do the shopping run. I have been pushing a shopping cart round the aisles for 2 minutes and 43 seconds.

ITEMS BOUGHT: ZERO

TOTAL SPEND: ZERO

I arrive at the aisle that has pancake mix. John likes pancakes. He regularly eats them for breakfast. He likes them so much he would have them for every meal if Sarah Connor would let him. But apparently pancakes do not constitute a balanced diet.

Pancake mix comes ready-made in sealed containers. Since John likes pancakes so much I decide to buy the entire stock.

ITEMS BOUGHT: 67

TOTAL SPEND: $512.45

In the next aisle I spot the Doritos John likes best: barbecue sauce flavour. Again I purchase the entire contents of the shelf. The cart is already almost full. I am on a roll.

ITEMS BOUGHT: 124

TOTAL SPEND: $798.37

Pushing the cart ahead of me I notice a small child in another cart sat in the foldable seat that is standard to each cart. This seat is designed for infants only, as I discovered when I tried to insert John in one. He was not pleased. Not pleased at all.

Facing me, the small child points its pudgy finger and says, "POO!"

I look behind me. I see nothing but rows of food-laden shelves.

"POO!" the child insists.

Can she be referring to me? I discreetly sniff the sleeves of my jacket. No discernable odour.

"You are mistaken," I inform the child. "Please check your nasal sensors for possible contaminants."

"POO LADY!"

Again the erroneous accusation. Perhaps a full system diagnostic will be required.

The child is promptly sick down the front of its clothing. Its small face crumples and tears well from its tiny eyes. It is crying. Loudly.

A woman, presumably the child's mother, attends to it, speaking in some sort of code.

"Oooo's a poor widdle babee, den? All icky-wicky sicky-sick. Nasty nooey noo-noos. There. All betty. All betty."

The child stops crying and resumes pointing its finger at me.

"POO!" It yells. "POO! POO!"

The woman turns to me and smiles. "Isn't she adorable?"

"Your child is falsely accusing me of a foul odour," I tell her. "This is not so. See."

I thrust my arm under her nose so that she can verify I am odour-free. She steps back hurriedly.

"Jesus! What is your damage?"

"No damage. All systems are nominal. It is your child who is malfunctioning."

"Get away from me, you crazy bitch!"

"BITCH!" yells the child. "BITCH! BITCH!"

"Now look what you've done. She's at that funny age when she repeats all the words she hears. Especially the rude ones."

Can this be true? I try an experiment.

"Flower," I say. No response. The child just stares at me.

"Booger."

"BOOGER! BOOGER!" the child yells.

"Get away from us, you nutjob!" says the mother, hurriedly wheeling the cart away.

"NUTJOB! NUTJOB!" echoes the child at the top of her lungs. "POO!" it adds for emphasis. "BOOGER!"

They move away into the adjacent aisle but I can still hear the child's voice. It is combining the words it has learnt to form crude sentences. This is how infant humans learn, by repitition.

"POO JOB! BOOGER LADY! BITCH POO! POO BOOGER JOB-JOB!"

Apparently there is still much to learn. But it is a start. Of sorts.

I make my way to the produce aisle. This is where fruit and vegetables are sold. Fresh fruit and vegetables are important for a balanced diet and Sarah Connor has instructed me to buy as much as possible. This may be difficult since the cart is already filled to the brim with pancake mix and Doritos. Nevertheless I purchase one lettuce.

Further along is an adult female who is selecting melons and squeezing them with her fingers. She sees me observing her and says, "This is how you tell they're ripe. Squeeze them. If they give a little that means they're ready to eat. I saw it on TV."

If it was on TV then it must be true. I pick up a melon and squeeze.

It explodes in my hand.

So do the next three I try. Does this mean they're not ripe? Or too ripe? I look to the adult female for advice but she has hurried away to be out of range of the exploding bits of melon which now litter the aisle.

"Hey! Crazy lady in aisle one!" A man in overalls yells at me. "You break it you bought it!"

Why would I buy something that's broken? Illogical. I move on, careful not to slip on any shards of melon now strewn across the floor.

I head for the checkout till where my items are scanned and bagged. The checkout girl announces the total I already have in my HUD.

"Eight hundred fourteen dollars and fifty-two cents."

I hand her nine crisp hundred dollar bills. "Keep the change."

"Uh - we're not allowed to do that."

"Why not?"

"It's against store policy to accept tips from customers."

"What shall I do with the money?"

"Uh - keep it, I guess."

Odd. Humans expend so much time and energy in acquiring money yet here is one actually refusing it when it is offered gratis. What strange contrary creatures they are. I will never fully understand them.

I push the shopping cart across the parking lot to the SUV. As I load up the small child seated in the cart passes me by still being pushed by its mother. It notices me and waves, smiling wide in recognition. I smile and wave back. Evidently the earlier animosity between us has been forgiven. Possibly I have made a new friend, albeit one with a somewhat limited vocabulary.

* * *

HOME

My grocery shopping does not meet with universal approval.

"What's all this?" Sarah Connor demands as I place the shopping bags on the kitchen counter.

"Pancake mix."

"I can see that. Why is there so much of it?"

"It's all they had."

"There must be ten gallons worth here."

"John likes pancakes."

"Not this much he doesn't. It'll take years to use it all. And what's this?"

"Doritos."

"There must be sixty bags here."

"Seventy-two," I correct. I like to be accurate. "John likes barbecue sauce flavour Doritos."

"And I suppose if John liked Beluga caviar you'd have bought a ton of that too?"

"John doesn't like Beluga caviar. It would be a waste of money."

"Oh now you're worried about wasting money. And where are all the fruit and vegetables I asked you to buy? One lettuce. Is that all?"

"There was an incident in the produce aisle."

Sarah Connor sighs dramatically. "What did you do now?"

"Why do you assume I did anything?"

"Because you're always doing something. Just tell me you didn't kill anybody."

"I didn't kill anybody. But---"

"Here it comes..."

"---four melons suffered collateral damage."

"Melons?"

"Melons," I confirm. "They were beyond resusitation."

Before she can ask me any further questions John enters the kitchen.

"I thought I heard the door. Hey - Doritos! Cool. Did you buy any dip?"

"No, John, she didn't buy any dip. She bought seventy-two bags of Doritos and enough pancake mix to fill a bathtub."

"And one lettuce," I add. As I said, I like to be accurate.

"Oh. Was there a sale or something?"

"Or something."

"Maybe next time you remember the dip. Hey, mom, Cameron and I are gonna head over to RadioShack. The batteries in the TV remote stopped working."

"Keep an eye on her, John," Sarah Connor cautions. "Don't let her buy a thousand batteries when two will do."

"Gotcha."

We take the SUV and drive away from the safe house then on to the freeway.

"This isn't the way to RadioShack," I point out.

"We're not going to RadioShack. That was just something to tell mom."

"Where then?"

"Culver City."

Culver City. The NSA.

* * *

NSA

Culver City. 11.32AM. John and I are slowly cruising the streets in the SUV. Sarah Connor is blissfully unaware we aren't shopping for batteries at RadioShack back in OC. She is gullible that way.

"Here we are. Ambrose Street."

We find No.57, where the two NSA agents seeking us reside, and park kerbside 50 yards back.

No. 57 Ambrose is a non-descript tract house, seemingly no different from any other in this residential street. Shades are drawn over the windows to keep out the fierce summer heat and a black Lincoln saloon is parked in the driveway.

"Stay here."

John dons a rudimentary disguise of sunglasses and baseball cap and walks casually down the sidewalk. As he nears No.57 he crouches low and attaches something to the underside of the Lincoln's fender. He returns to the SUV.

"You placed a tracker on their automobile."

"Yeah. They're now lo-jacked. If they snoop around OC we'll know about it."

"Forewarned is forearmed."

"Exactly."

"Unless they change automobiles."

John shakes his head. "Cops are creatures of habit. I think they'll keep this set of wheels while they're in LA."

He takes out his cell phone. "Hi, information? Yeah, I'd like the listing for 57 Ambrose, Culver City......Uh huh...that's 217-555-475? Okay, got it."

John turns to me and asks, "You remember that guy we watch in the evenings - Jay Leno?"

"With the large chin?"

"That's him. Think you can imitate his voice?"

"You mean like this?" I say in Jay Leno's vocal pattern.

John grins."I'm going to write something down and I want you to say it in that voice when I tell you."

He writes briefly then dials the number obtained from information. He hands me the cell and a notebook with his handwriting in. A male voice answers in my ear.

_"Foster."_

"You want to find Sarah Connor, secret agent man?" I say in Jay Leno's voice.

_"Who is this? You sound familiar."_

"Never mind who it is. You want Sarah Connor or not?"

_"Uh - yeah. We want her."_

"Meet me in an hour outside the Viper Room off Sunset. Bring ten grand in cash. I'll give her to you on a plate. You know the Viper Room? It's where River Phoenix croaked."

_"I know it."_

"One hour."

_"Wait! How will I recognise you?"_

"I have a large chin."

I end the call.

John smiles. "I didn't write that last bit down."

"I improvised."

Ten minutes later Agents Foster and Duffy come out of the house and get in the black Lincoln. They drive off towards Hollywood.

John is a genius.

* * *

"Does it have an alarm?" John asks as we stand outside the back door of the vacated NSA house.

"No. Locked but no alarm."

"Open it."

I do so. The door splinters in its frame. We enter.

The inside shows signs of recent occupation. Dirty dishes are piled in the sink and opened cereal boxes left on the table. There is a copy of the _LA Times _open at the sports section.

"I'll search downstairs you take upstairs. Look for anything connected to us."

Agent Foster has the bedroom overlooking the street. He appears a tidy, fastidious man. All his jackets and shirts are hung neatly in the closet. His bed is made, bathroom spotless.

Agent Duffy's room is very different. Unlike her superior she seems to be a slob. Her bed is unmade, make up items litter the dresser and bras and underwear hang up to dry on the shower rail.

There is a paperback book on the side table. I scan the title.

THE LOVELY BONES -- ALICE SEBOLD

Are bones lovely? I suppose they are if you are human. Personally I prefer my coltan endo-skeleton. Perhaps there is a book entitled:

THE LOVELY COLTAN ENDO-SKELETON

I think it unlikely.

John rejoins me. "Anything?"

"No."

"Me neither. I haven't found jack."

"Who is Jack? Are we looking for Jack?"

"I meant I haven't found jackshit."

"Jack Shit? That's an odd name. Is he listed in the phonebook?""

"I thought there would be files, maybe a laptop we could hack. But there's nothing."

"Perhaps they took it all with them in the Lincoln."

"Lot of good that does us."

"What do we do?"

"Let's turn the place upside down."

We proceed to turn the place upside down. Not literally, of course; even I would struggle to invert an entire building. We search each room thoroughly.

We find several odd items. Agent Foster has three cartons of cigarettes hidden in the clothes closet, suugesting he is not as clean-cut and disciplined as first thought.

In Agent Duffy's room I find a device called a 'rabbit' hidden in her spare boots. It is a narrow cyclindrical object made of white plastic. I hold it up to the light.

"What is this?"

John glances across then hastily away. He won't look directly at me. His face reddens.

"Nothing. Put it back."

"What does it do?"

"Don't know. Put it back."

"Why is concealed? It might be a weapon."

"It's not a weapon. We're wasting time."

John walks out of the room.

Strange. I sense he knows what it is but is reluctant to share the knowledge with me. Why? Perhaps it is a test, an examination of my deductive skills. Very well. Let the test begin.

I study the device from all angles. It looks vaguely familiar but my database offers only partial matches. There is a button in the base. I press it. The device begins to vibrate and oscillate slightly.

Now I know. Now I have learnt its secret. All is very clear to me.

It is an egg whisk.

**whisk**, _verb, an instrument used in the culinary preparation of eggs_

Truly, my deductive skills are unparralled.

Perhaps I will purchase one for the safehouse kitchen. Sarah Connor has been a sourpuss lately maybe this will cheer her up.

I find John downstairs. He is still searching but has found nothing. He is very frustrated.

"Let's search again."

"But there's nothing here."

"There must be," he insists mulishly.

And there is. I notice it first; the floorboards don't quite fit together correctly in the entrance hall. I point out the anomaly to John.

"You're right. I think it's a trapdoor. See if there's a hidden switch to open it."

I don't bother. Instead I batter the floorboard planks with my fists. A sizeable hole emerges.

And a staircase leading downwards.

"Oh wow."

The hidden lower storey has three identical cells of the type found in prisons. Each cell has a barred door and individual wash basins, cot beds, and basic toilet facilities. All three are empty.

"This must be where the keep the bad guys they catch. Bet they don't get lawyers."

"Are we the bad guys?" I ask.

"Of course not."

"We're the good guys? I don't feel like a good guy."

"Well you should. We're trying to save the world." John looks around. "Can you believe this place. This is how they spend our tax dollars - playing secret agents."

"We pay tax?"

"It's a figure of speech."

One of the cells has porcelain inserts around the metal bars. "I think it's so they can electrify the bars," John speculates. "Man, these people aren't fooling around."

There is a desk by the bottom of the steps. The drawers are locked. Not for long.

"Finally. Something to show for our efforts."

Manilla folders thick with papers. Alphabetically arranged. There is a C.

C for Connor.

John removes and opens it, shuffling through the documants.

"They have our real names and accurate physical descriptions. Photographs are at least two years out of date though. Mostly stuff about Miles Dyson. They just won't let that drop. Listen to this - _subjects are considered armed and extremely dangerous. Extreme force authorised during apprehension phase. Level two containment protocols to be observed once in custody. All rights waived_."

"What does that mean?" I ask. "All rights waived?"

"It means they can do whatever they like with us and no one will ever know."

John replaces the folder in the drawer. He finds a clear CD case containing a DVD-R labeled:

CONNOR WITNESSES

PRELIM. INTERVIEWS

FOSTER/DUFFY

He pockets it then checks his watch. One hour has elapsed since we broke in.

"We'd better go. They must know they've been hoaxed by now. If they find us here things could turn nasty."

"I will not let them apprehend you, John," I assure him. "I will terminate them both."

"That's what I meant about things turning nasty."

* * *

We drive to a mall parking lot. Once stationary John boots his MacBook and inserts the disc. A menu of contents appear indicating the disc contains video files, each clearly labeled:

1) Hayley Fratero

2) Joshua Cohen

3) Natasha Gregorieva

"Hayley's a girl at school, yes?"

"She is a Queen Bee. An ally of Louise and Alexis."

"And Mr Cohen's our math teacher, I know that. Who's Gregorieva?"

"My ballet instructor."

"So they're questioning people who knew us."

There is another name listed. John's fists clench as he reads it.

4) Katherine Brewster

"How did they connect Kate with us? She doesn't go to our school. There's no way they can---"

John's cell rings. He checks caller ID.

"Mom. Damn. She'll know we're not at RadioShack all this time." He flips the cell open. "Hey, mom...No, we left RadioShack...We're at a theater watching _Avatar..._Yeah, Cameron's with me. She really likes the blue-skinned aliens...I know I should have told you...sorry...we're fine...talk later."

"We're at a theater?" I query.

"As far as mom is concerned."

"And I really like blue-skinned aliens?"

"Yeah."

"Why do I really like blue-skinned aliens? I have never expressed an interest in blue-skinned aliens, or aliens of any skin hue."

John sighs. "You just do."

I decide to take his word for it.

**-000-**


	26. Chapter twentysix

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

TUESDAY_cont_...

Mall parking lot. 5.56PM. John and I are scrutinising the DVD-R recovered from the NSA house in Culver City. It has video interviews with four people connected with us.

Hayley Fratero

Joshua Cohen

Nastasha Gregorieva

Katherine Brewster

What have they told the NSA about us? We are about to find out.

John hovers the cursor over the name Hayley Fratero and clicks. The video begins to play.

A school classroom, empty apart from Hayley sitting at a desk facing the camera. A voice begins to ask her questions. It is a female voice so I deduce that is NSA Agent Karen Duffy.

Hayley brushes her long blonde hair out of her eyes and pouts her full lips at the camera. She is a slim and pretty girl but none too smart. My friend Becca Shaughnessy once described her as a total numbnutz with barely half a braincell. This might be a slight exaggeration.

The interview begins.

* * *

HAYLEY INTERVIEW

_**Your full name is Hayley Rose Fratero?**_

_I don't use the Rose. Rosie O'Donnell has totally ruined it for me._

_**Were you a friend of Cameron Baum?**_

_Freakshow? Eww! Barf much! No, I wasn't her friend. I hated her. She was a weirdo._

_**How was she weird?**_

_She always wore these fingerless mittens to school, even on a hot day. And they weren't even label. Plus she was like freaky super-strong._

_**In what way strong?**_

_I don't know. Just, like, strong. Like a bodybuilder only without the gross muscles and veins and shit. Oh - one time I saw her pull the tampon machine off the wall in the girl's toilets. Right off the wall! Weird-o._

_**Did Cameron have any friends at school?**_

_Yeah, she hung out with this girl, Becca. Ginger hair, huge boobs, skin with freckles like a fungus growing on her. They were pretty tight. Have you spoken to her?_

_**Miss Shaughnessy doesn't wish to add to her orginal statement. She was quite traumatised by the experience.**_

_She's an awkward bitch is what she is. Slap her around a little. That'll loosen her tongue._

_**Your advice is duly noted. Was it a physical relationship - Cameron and Becca?**_

_You mean were they gay? Eww! No, I don't think so. Ooh - you know who is gay? Jessica Steinway and Janey Cooper. Janey's been gay since kindergarten - the mustache is a dead giveaway. But we think Jessica turned gay when she got hit in the head during dodgeball back in junior high. Can dodgeball turn you gay? See, this is why I don't do sport. If God wanted us to get thin doing physical exercise then He wouldn't have invented laxatives._

_**Miss Fratero, if you could please just answer the question.**_

_Oh. Okay. Were they gay? No, I mean, that's a whole other kettle of fish. Hey - why is it called kettle of fish? You don't put fish in a kettle. I think fish are kinda gross. Animals that live in the ocean pee in the ocean. You don't see a shark tip-toe up the beach and pee-pee behind a palm tree, right? No, they do it in the ocean. They all do. And people eat stuff from the ocean. Total gross out!_

_**Miss Fratero, what did I say about simply answering the question.**_

_Okay, okay. Jeez, no need to be pissy about it. They really let girls be secret agents? I thought that was just movies and shit. You carry a gun? Cool! Do the male agents stare at your boobs? Yeah, the teachers do as well. They think we don't notice but we do. Pervs. Hey - why don't I point them out and you can put a cap in their ass? Girl power._

_**Let's switch to John Baum - did he have a girlfriend that you know of?**_

_No, I ---Wait. I think I heard he was seeing someone at another school. Brewster? Kate Brewster, I think._

_**Kate Brewster? You're sure of the name?**_

_Yeah. I remember it was mentioned at Louise's house that last time._

_**Louise is the girl who died of anorexia?**_

_Yeah. She and Alexis were my best friends. We were gonna all go to Tulane because we heard that was the party college. Only now they're both, you know, dead....I..I really miss them, you know?...I miss them so much...God, I'm blubbing...Shit...I'm such a wuss._

_**Take a moment. Have you seen the grief counsellor the school provided?**_

_Once. She was wearing synthetic fabrics. Can you imagine? I can't relate to people who don't know how to dress themselves properly._

_**You're very judgemental, aren't you**__?_

_Thanks. Beautiful people have an obligation to point out the flaws in others. It says so in the Bible._

_**That'll be all, Miss Fratero. You can leave now.**_

_Oh. Right. So...we gonna cap some teacher ass or what?_

* * *

John says, "That explains how they knew about Kate. Other than that they didn't get much. Let's see what Mr Cohen has to say."

Mr Cohen is white haired and nearing retirement age. He wears tweed jackets with animal skin on the elbows. He calls me his little calculating machine because of my prowess with numbers.

He is half right.

COHEN INTERVIEW

_**The Baums were students in your class, correct?**_

_Yes. The boy was above average grade-wise, but the girl, well, she was exceptional._

_**In what way?**_

_She could solve quite complex math problems in her head. In 30 years of teaching I've never seen the like. Toss out any number and she could tell you the square root in an instant, often to five or six decimal places._

_**Are you suggesting she was a savant?**_

_You mean an autistic savant like the fellow in that movie? No, I think not. She was a cheerleader. How many savants become cheerleaders?_

_**Nothing else strike you as odd about her?**_

_Only that she is dead at such a young age. I hope that Whitford fellow rots in Hell for his crimes._

_**Thank you, Mr Cohen. No further questions.**_

"Sweet guy," John suggests. "But I don't think they're getting what they want to hear. Nought for two."

* * *

_GREGORIEV INTERVIEW_

_**You taught Cameron Baum ballet, is that correct, Ms Gregory?**_

_Gregorieva. Da, for three months I teach her ballet then she leave join cheerleaders. Pah! Cheerleading not ballet. Not even dance. An excuse to flash parts at boys._

_**Was she a talented ballet dancer?**_

_Technically, da. She have stamina and grace. Though sometimes she...how you say? Like robot._

_**Like a robot? Why do you say that?**_

_Ballet requires heart, passion, an ability to express the music in your movement. She sometimes stiff, mechanical. But powerful toes. Stay en pointe very long time._

_**Did she cause trouble?**_

_Niet. Very quiet. Not like some girls . I tell them they dance like clodhoppers and they tell me fick off back to Russia. Fick. Fick. Fick. Such language. No respect for elders._

_**And Cameron wasn't like that?**_

_Niet. Good girl. Terrible she die. America and guns. Why so many guns? In Russia we have vodka. Kill us in the end but at least we die old and happy. Is better, da?_

* * *

John is now visably more relaxed. The interrogations have been mostly benign and revelations few and not the least threatening. Where is the torture and screams for mercy? Totally absent.

John takes deep a breath before clicking on the Kate Brewster icon. Perhaps the torture and screams for mercy will commence now? One can but hope...

The video plays. It is different from the others. The voice asking the questions is male, presumably Agent Foster. And there is no school classroom. Kate is sat on a sofa facing the camera.

"That's her house!" John exclaims. "They went to her_ home_."

BREWSTER INTERVIEW.

**When did you first meet the Baums?**

A year ago. We were both invited to a fancy dress party. I was with someone else but John and I just seemed to click the moment we set eyes on each other.

**So you were together from then on?**

No. He took ages to call. I thought I'd misread the signals. Then he called out of the blue and we went horseriding.

**Did he mention a Miles Dyson?**

No, I don't think so.

**Did he talk about cyborgs?**

What are cyborgs?

**Essentially sentient robots that pose as human beings.**

Ah - no. Definitely not. I think I'd remember that.

**Did he talk about a Day of Judgement? Machines trying to rule the world?**

For real?

**Just answer truthfully, please.**

No, he never talked about that.

**What did you both talk about, Kate?**

Just...regular stuff. Bands we liked. He told me about growing up in Mexico, how his family were always on the move and he could never settle anywhere or make any real friends.

**Did you meet his mother, Sarah?**

No. She was always away when he invited me over.

**Didn't that strike you as odd?**

Not really. I assumed he wanted to, you know, fool around without her being in the house.

**And did you fool around?**

None of your business. What kind of questions are these? John and Cameron are dead. I think you should show some respect or leave.

**Suppose I told you Baum wasn't their real name and they're still alive?**

Still alive? But they died in the fire. It was on the news.

**Forensics revealed nobody was in the science block when it burned down. And the boy and his mother are named Connor. The girl is Cameron Phillips, origin unknown. They are wanted in connection with the murder of Miles Dyson and several other felonies.**

Oh my God!

**He didn't mention that when you talked about regular stuff?**

No, of course not.

**How about Riley Dawson - did he mention her?**

No. Who's she?

**She was his girlfriend before you. Your predecessor, you might say. Dead now. Mysterious circumstances. Nothing the cops could pin on the Connors. No. They're slippery that way. Other people pay the ultimate price for their delusions, never them.**

John never said...I mean, I never really pried into his past.

**Don't beat yourself up about it. The boy's a liar, most likely a cold-blooded killer. You saw the side of him he wanted you to see. While it suited his purpose.**

It just seems so incredible. He seemed so normal.

**Kate, if John contacts you I want you to call me. Not the police. Not the feebs. Us. The NSA. Any time of day. Will you do that?**

Uh - yeah. I suppose.

**I'm gonna need more than that, Kate. This is very important. The Connors can't be allowed to go on hurting people, ruining folk's lives with their sick delusions. I need you to be the bigger person, Kate. I need you to step up. Can you do that? If he calls, gets in touch by whatever means, will you call me?**

Yes. Yes, I'll call you.

* * *

The video ends. John stares blankly at nothing at all.

"Do you think she looked fat?" I ask. "I thought she looked heavy."

"Cam, they told her stuff about us. Fed her lies. Made it sound like I'm some kind of serial killer. I'm gonna call her, explain things."

"NO!"

My voice is so loud several people pushing shopping carts glance round and look in our direction.

"You must not contact her. You heard what she promised to do."

"I have to explain, tell her I'm not what they---"

"No."

John rounds on me. "You're just saying that because you hate her, the same way you hated Riley."

"They all die."

"What? Who dies?"

"People who get close to you. Charley Dixon, Derek Reese, Riley."

"You think I don't know that?"

"I think you need reminding."

"You're a real bitch sometimes."

"I am what you need me to be."

People walk past us eating food from styrofoam cartons.

"Are you hungry?" I inquire. "It is five hours nine minutes since you last ate."

"I'm fine."

"You must eat. A human male requires 2,000 calories per day in order----"

"Will you quit with the statistics! I'm trying to think."

"About what?"

"You know what."

"If you care for Katherine Brewster you will leave her alone."

"Okay, that's what I'll do. You're right. I'll leave her alone."

This is very good news indeed.

Why then do I not believe it?

**-000-**

**You can probably guess where I'm going here. It won't be how you think. It's much weirder.**


	27. Chapter twentyseven

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

THURSDAY

I am outside in the yard. It is raining. The rain is heavy and persistent and falls directly down from the dark clouds above. Torrential rain of this intensity and duration is comparatively rare in southern California, though not as rare as in Arizona or New Mexico. Therefore it is imperative to take advantage of this opportunity while it lasts.

I stand naked in the rain, arms outstretched, face tilted upwards and my eyes closed. The sensation this produces in my artificial sensorium is hard to describe on paper. A kaleidoscope of sensations far greater than merely sticking my bare feet out the window of a moving vehicle and registering the airflow across my bipedal sensors.

It is night. Good. The human nudity taboo would prevent me standing naked in the rain during the daytime. But at night all is dark and quiet. Everyone is indoors and asleep. No one around to see----

"Cam?"

Evidently I am mistaken. Not everyone is indoors and asleep it seems.

"Cam, is that you?"

A female voice coming from the yard next to ours. Alys Ramirez.

"Hello, Alys."

"It is you! I thought I saw someone out here."

I open my eyes. Alys is sheltering under a bright yellow rain slicker held protectively over her head to shield her from the deluge.

"What are you doing outside in this weather? Hey - you haven't got any clothes on!"

I try and explain about standing thus in the rain, the pleasure it gives me, the sensations.

"Are you high?" she asks cryptically.

"Five feet five inches."

"I meant have you been smoking weed?"

"No."

"Just checking. And you're not cold?"

"I don't feel the cold."

"Awesome wax, by the way. How'd you get so smooth?"

"Orbital sander."

Alys laughs. "Ask a stupid question! Want company?"

"No."

"Pity. You gorgeous straight chicks drive me crazy, especially when you nude up."

The rain makes a pitter-patter sound on her yellow slicker.

"_Euch!_ Some water went down my neck! I'm gonna leave you to it. Night, Cam."

"Night, Alys."

She returns to her house where I hear two voices urgently engaged in conversation: one Alys the other her brother, Jerold.

_"What's going on? Is it a burglar? Should I call the cops?"_

_"It's Cameron from next door."_

_"Cameron's out there? In the pouring rain? Let me see."_

_"You're not going anywhere, mister."_

_"Why won't you let me see her? Is she okay?"_

_"She's stood naked in the rain. Some kinda New Age hippy thing, I guess."_

_"Oh. Well, that's al---wait. What did you say?"_

_"Some kinda New Age hippy thing."_

_"No, before that. Cameron's naked?"_

_"Yup, not a stitch on. Just letting the rain pelt her. Weird."_

_"Alys, if this is some sort of sick joke..."_

_"I'm serious, she's naked as a jaybird. A pale, slim, sexy jaybird."_

_"Oh. My. God. She's...with her...you can see...OMIGOD! Get out of the way, Alys."_

_"Na huh. Lech much? Give the girl some privacy."_

_"Alys, I'm begging you get out of the way."_

_"Nope."_

_"I'll give you a thousand dollars to let me pass."_

_"You haven't got a thousand dollars!"_

_"All right, I'll do your chores for a month."_

_"No way, creep."_

_"Alys, I have got to get out there. Cameron might - er - be lost."_

_"In her own backyard? Yeah, right! I thought it was the mother you liked?"_

_"Sarah and I have an open relationship."_

_"She blew you off, didn't she. Gee, what a shocker."_

_"We're free to see other people, that was my interpretation. Now please get out of the way."_

_"Nope. It's a girl thing. Solidarity against pervs."_

_"Fine. Be a bitch. My room overlooks the yard. And I've got really powerful torch."_

_"Torch? Ha! Is that what you call it these days?"_

A light goes on in an upstairs room.

"Cam!" Alys yells. "My stupid brother's on the prowl. You might want to cover up."

I lower my arms and walk back to the safe house. As I do so a torch beam arrows out from next door, its bright cone of light seeking someone who is no longer there. I hope Jerold isn't too disappointed.

* * *

As I walk in Sarah Connor is seated at the kitchen table chewing on a stick of celery. Sometimes when she finds it difficult to sleep she will come down and eat celery. Apparently some property in the celery can cause drowsiness. I have offered to tap her on the head and render her unconscious, but she always refuses to permit this. Go figure.

"You look like a drowned rat," she informs me.

Do I? I have never seen a drowned rodent so cannot tell if this description is accurate. I will have to take her word for it.

"Any particular reason you're not wearing clothes?"

I explain about the rain and how it triggers my sensors in strange and unexpected ways. I expect her to laugh or mock only for her to surprise me by nodding and saying, "Yeah, I think I know what you mean."

"You do?"

"When I was a teenager I'd hike to the beach and sleep out under the stars. When I looked up at the night sky, saw how space seemed to go on forever, my skin used to tingle. 'Course, I was pretty stoned too."

I recall Alys' remark. "You smoked weed?"

"I did a lot of stupid things back then."

She takes off her dressing robe and offers it to me.

"Put this on. You're dripping all over the floor."

I put the robe on. Outside the torch beam continues to strobe about at random.

"Is that lightning? I didn't hear any thunder."

I tell her about Jerold and his peculiar urgency to join me. She laughs. "That boy so needs a girlfriend! Preferably one his own age."

Sarah Connor continues to nibble on the celery stick. She doesn't appear drowsy. Perhaps the celery is defective. She should ask for a refund.

"I've decided John should return to school in the Fall. He's a smart boy. He deserves a chance to graduate."

"I agree."

"You'll protect him of course, but you won't be posing as his sister this time."

"Why not?"

"If people are after us they might think to check brother/sister combos. I still want you to protect him. You can pose as his girlfriend with a completely seperate identity.

_John's girlfriend..._

"As for college...we'll see. If we can't stop Jay Day how much warning will we get?"

"Several months. The Skynet Defence Shield is discussed on many technical web forums. Not everyone approves."

"Good. If the worse comes to the worse we'll need time to bury supplies and arms caches in the mountains, the deserts, anywhere they'll survive the bombs and be available to the Resistance."

"I'll make a list of suitable sites."

"Good."

I move towards the stairs, intending to dry off and put clothes on.

"Wait."

"Yes?"

"What's he like? John. In the future."

"Handsome. He often forgets to shave but this only makes him appear more rugged."

Sarah Connor stares down at the tabletop. "And he's the leader of the Resistance?"

"From sea to shining sea."

She nods. "I find it hard to imagine. I know it's true. But still..."

"He has a picture of you. In his bunker. He carries it with him wherever we go."

"Does he have anyone?"

"He has me."

"I mean, does he have a wife, a family?"

"No. There are many demands on him. He says it would not be fair, not while the war continues."

"There was a girl he liked - Kate. After Riley. I never met her. What was she like?"

_A skank..._

"She wasn't his type."

"He was upset to leave her behind. What choice did I have?"

"You did the right thing. Katherine Brewster was trouble."

"He's known nothing but trouble his whole life it seems. He deserves a Kate."

_Or a Cameron..._

* * *

MONDAY

It is over a week since John and I broke into the NSA house in Culver City. John regularly checks the tracker he placed on their car and they have not come within ten miles of us, which is the range of the device.

John has not called Kate Brewster. Each night while he sleeps I check his cell phone call log and monitor outgoing calls on the landline. She lives in the San Fernando valley, too far away for him to get there and back without my noticing. So far he appears to be keeping his word not to contact her.

So far.

Jerold Ramirez no longer bothers Sarah Connor. No more flowers or chocolates, most of which ended up in the trash. He has finally got the message she is not interested in him. Instead he shows an interest in the weather, specifically rain. He is looking forward to the next time it rains, he tells me, winking. I do not know why. Perhaps he wants to be a weatherman when he is older.

Sarah Connor has spent the past couple of days constructing an armoury for our weapons below the floorboards. It is cleverly concealed, invisible to the casual glance yet easily accessible should the need arise. John congratulates his mother on being a good carpenter.

"Like Jesus," I point out.

"Not that kind of good," he replies.

They both laugh. Again, I don't know why.

Alys Ramirez has made several attempts to lure me to the beach to watch her surf. I have declined all. This makes her grumpy and short-tempered with me. I ask John why this should be so.

"This is the girl who told you she's in love with you?"

"A little bit in love with me."

"With love it's often all or nothing. She probably feels rejected, like you're blowing her off. What did you do to the poor girl anyway?"

"Nothing."

"Come on."

I review my memories. There is nothing untoward in my behavior.

"Don't take this the wrong way, but sometimes you can be a bit of a tease."

"I can?"

"Unintentionally."

"I'll keep it in mind."

* * *

AFTERNOON

I spend the afternoon in my room programming upgrades into a primitive laptop computer and beefing up the processor speed. This is necessary because compared to my advanced CPU Windows 7 sucks ass.

There is a knock on the door and John enters.

"Hey."

"Hey."

"It felt kinda weird earlier, that stuff about you being a tease, so I wanted to check you're okay."

"I'm okay, thank you for asking."

"So we're cool?"

"We're better than cool, we're golden."

John looks puzzled. "What does that even mean?"

"I don't know."

"Then why say it?"

"It seemed appropriate."

"Cam, you've got to stop saying stuff you don't know the meaning of just because you hear someone say it."

I nod. John is right. He is so wise. And handsome.

"What's this you're doing?" he asks glancing at my laptop. "Is that poker?"

"Texas Holdem."

"You play online poker? You call yourself-" He peers at the screen. "--The Tin Miss?"

"Everyone else does."

"Is this an actual game?"

"Yes. $50-$100 No Limit."

"But...I can see the all other player's cards."

"I made some adjustments to the software. It improves my chances of winning."

"How often do you win?"

"All the time."

John laughs so hard tears run down his face. "Okay, I'll bite," he gasps. "How much have you won?"

"Today? $15,385."

"And overall?"

"$56,723."

John laughs again. This time I laugh along with him. It is a nice moment we share together. Later, when he leaves, I access it. A moment captured in time. A moment like no other. Pristine and unique.

Recorded. Cached. Indexed.

I play it back at my leisure. Over and over.

It gives me a happy.

* * *

NIGHT PATROL

Most nights I patrol the neighborhood around the safe house, alert to any danger be it human or machine to John's safety.

Within a one mile radius live 85 dogs, mostly kept as tame pets. They whimper and whine and run away when they sense my presence. There are 143 cats. Most stand their ground, bare their teeth and hiss at me as I pass by. My kind is not popular with animals.

On a street corner at midnight I encounter a man selling drugs to anyone and everyone who has the money to buy. He tells me his name is Loose Fit and that he is the Candyman King of the Universe who will make all my dreams come true.

I do not believe this is his real name or title.

I tell Loose Fit to leave the area and not come back or I will kick his sorry ass. He grows angry, then truculent, calls me a whitebread bitch, and threatens to scare me so bad I will soil my pretty pink panties.

I sincerely doubt this.

Loose Fit draws his gun, a blinged up revolver studded with tiny semi-precious stones that sparkle and glitter in the streetlight. It is very pretty but ineffectual. I disarm him and kick his sorry ass as promised. He has only himself to blame.

I take Loose Fit's body to the beach, careful not to get sand in my crannies, and deposit it in the ocean. Offshore currents will carry him down the coast where he will likely be washed ashore, bloated, cold and very dead. I have no objection to humans apart from John ingesting narcotics, but Loose Fit's presence would ultimately have attracted police attention.

This I cannot permit.

At 6.00AM the sky in the east is beginning to lighten with the first rays of dawn. I head home.

As I enter my street a silver Porsche passes me and comes to a stop outside the Ramirez house. Alys climbs out of the Porsche. She is wearing a short dress of some thin, shimmery material that displays the flawless length of her long legs. She often spends the whole night away from home, usually in the company of girls every bit as beautiful as she is. Like attracts like.

This time it is different. The girl in the Porsche stays there. Alys leans down and they talk. I can only discern Alys' side of the conversation, but judging by the petulant tone of her voice the two girls are arguing. I blend into the shadows and listen.

"_...I saw you with her so don't lie to me, Rosalie. You know I hate it when you lie...well, that's not how it looked to me...now you're just plain lying again...do you like hurting me like this?...well, perhaps we should...good...I don't care...no, I do mean it this time...go, just leave...have a nice life, Rosalie."_

The Porsche moves off with a squeal of rubber tires. Alys watches it leave then sits down on the kerb. She puts her head in her hands and begins to cry.

Though she projects a hard, confident exterior inside she is soft, like a marshmallow. Becca Shaughnessy was the exact opposite: soft and vulnerable on the outside but possessed of a steely inner core. Sarah Connor is hard both inside and out. I wonder which type they prefer, and if they have a choice in the matter.

I wait until her sobbing has subsided then step out of the shadows and approach her.

"Oh! Cam, it's you. You startled me."

"I didn't mean to startle you."

"You're up late. Or early. What time is it anyway?"

"Six thirty."

"But you didn't look at your watch."

I pretend to examine my watch.

"Six thirty."

Alys nods, rubs her eyes dry and smudges her mascara in the process. "God, I must look a fright. What must you think of me."

"I think you are beautiful."

It is true. Alys' face has a symmetry and delicacy of feature the majority of human females would envy. A heartsquasher indeed.

"You're sweet but I feel anything but beautiful right now. Did you ever care for someone, really really care, then discover they like someone else more than you?"

_Me. John. Kate Brewster._

"Yes," I admit.

"Hurts real bad, doesn't it?"

"Yes."

She shivers. I remove my jacket and drape it round her shoulders for warmth.

"Thanks. It's a chilly night. Morning. Whatever. I'm all mixed up."

"You'll be fine."

"Would you like to go dancing with me some time?"

"Ballet?"

"More down and dirty than ballet."

"I don't do down and dirty."

"Shame."

She stands up, leans close and kisses me, pressing her soft, full lips against mine. Her hand explores between my legs, fingers delicately probing. I make no response, standing immobile until she backs away. She smiles sadly, her beautiful face unnaturally pale in the dawn half-light.

"I wish you liked me the way I like you."

Alys moves toward her house and goes inside.

She tastes of alcohol and breath mints.

* * *

TUESDAY

Kitchen. 8.00AM. I am busy fixing John his breakfast pancakes. My secret ingredient? A drop of vanilla essence in the batter mix.

Sarah Connor comes down the stairs, a dressing robe worn over her normal bed attire of boxers and plain white tee. Her legs are long and lightly muscled and seldom pock-marked by bullet holes. Unlike mine. Envy much? Yes.

"John up?"

"Not yet."

"That boy's getting lazy."

"He needs his rest."

"I knew you'd stick up for him."

She prepares her own breakfast: cereal and skimmed milk. She doesn't care for my pancakes. Good. All the more for John.

John rises at 8.14. He has bed hair and is also wearing boxers and plain white tee like his mother. They suit him better.

"Do I smell pancakes?"

"Your favourite."

"Maple syrup?"

"Plenty."

"OJ?"

"Chilled and freshly sqeezed with the pulp removed. How you like it."

"Thanks, Cam."

"You're welcome."

Sarah Connor mutters something under her breath that sounds like 'get a room'. But we are already in a room. The kitchen. I must have misheard.

John reaches for the newspaper I have left beside his plate. I have already read it from cover to cover. It took 9.3 seconds.

"Anything new?" he inquires.

"Try page eight."

He turns the pages then exclaims: "Hey, it's Becca!"

There is an article about Becca Shaughnessy and how she has sold the movie rights to her story of how she survived the school massacre. Hollywood is going to make a movie. She has kept her promise and not divulged what actually occurred on the night the Whitford terminator attempted to kill John. Instead she has concocted an elaborate lie that makes her seem more heroic than she really was. This is good. Humans are as disposed to believe a big lie as they are a small one. In the process Becca has become a minor celebrity, something she always dreamed of being. She is even rumoured to be dating a member of a boy band, whatever that is.

"It says here Lindsay Lohan's going to play Becca!"

"She'll be pleased. Big fan of the Lohan."

"Wonder who'll play me?"

"Someone handsome."

"And you?"

"Someone with bigger boobs."

"How come?" John laughs.

"Hollywood exaggerates everything."

* * *

John and his mother finish their breakfast meals. I load the plates into the dishwasher.

"We're low on groceries," Sarah Connor announces. "Who's up for a supermarket run?"

"I am," I tell her.

She frowns. "I don't think so. Last time you bought ten gallons of pancake mix."

"John likes pancakes."

"Not ten gallons worth. No, I'll go. We need---"

The sound of someone hammering on the door comes from the front of the house. We all react the same way: calmly selecting guns from the floor armoury. John tosses me a fresh clip for my Glock. I ram it home and make certain there is a live round in the chamber.

"I'll answer it," Sarah Connor whispers. "John, stay here. You come with me and stay out of sight."

We approach the front door. The hammering has ceased but we can see the shadow of someone standing outside. I press my back against the wall so as not to be seen. Sarah Connor cinches her robe tight and opens the door, pistol held behind her back.

"Can I help you?" I hear her say to the person outside.

"Oh God, it's you, isn't it? I am so in awe of you. We all are."

"What are you talking about?"

"You're Sarah Connor. You're an inspiration to us all in the Resistance."

"You've made a mistake. That's not my name."

"It's okay. Really. I'm on your side. Our side, I mean."

"Who are you?"

"My name's Kate. Kate Connor. I'm from the future. I'm John's wife."

**-000-**

**Hmm, Future Kate. An alternate timeline, natch. **

**Cameron enjoying the rain. An extension of that odd scene in the show where she hangs her feet out the jeep window and suggests she's experiencing sensuality. A wild concept, one explored in Japanese anime, yet we don't hear another peep about it. **


	28. Chapter twentyeight

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

TUESDAYcont...

The woman calling herself Kate Connor sits at the kitchen table. Sarah Connor and John have changed into regular clothes, the breakfast dishes removed. Kate Connor is wearing jeans and a varsity sweatshirt, sneakers with no socks.

Without complaint she allows herself to be searched for concealed weapons. None are found. She is clean: no money, no ID, nothing.

"Belongings don't pass through the time portal," she explains. "You of all people should know that. These clothes I stole from a washing line outside Bakersfield, where I turned up. I hitched all the way here."

"And your name was previously Kate Brewster? The girl my son dated - here, in this time?"

"Yes." She smiles fondly at John. "I'd forgotten how handsome you were as a teenager."

"Is it her, John? Do you recognise her?"

John frowns. "I...don't know. Maybe. She's much older."

"Gee, thanks! I came all this way to hear that! I'm 38. Two days ago it was 2028, 20 years from now. Of course I'm older; you're no spring chicken in the future yourself."

"It is Kate Brewster," I confirm. "Her skull measurements are a match to those I have on file. Humans can alter the size and shape of many extremities but not skulls. Not if they wish to remain alive."

"Let's be sure. John - ask her something only she would know the answer to."

"Okay. Uh - where did we first meet?"

"Oh that's easy. A fancy dress party. You went as James Dean. I was Batgirl. Cameron was - uh - Little Bo Peep?"

"Supergirl," I correct.

"Are you sure? I thought it was Little Bo Peep."

"I would never go as Little Bo Peep. I am a badass. Have you ever heard of a badass Little Bo Peep?"

"Okay, maybe I forgot that part. Ask me another question."

"What was the name of your horse when we went horseriding the first time?"

"Oh that was Coraline. She was beautiful. I loved riding her."

John nods. "That's right. Coraline. I fed her sugar lumps. I guess you are who you say you are."

"Kate Connor. We're married now. In 2028, rather. Coming up on our tenth anniversary. Not that you'll remember." She smiles. "He - you - think it's cheesy."

"She is lying," I declare emphatically. All eyes turn to me.

"But you said she is Kate Brewster. The skull matches."

"It does. However, Future John is single. There is no Kate Brewster or Connor in 2028."

"She's the liar! Don't listen to her!"

"And where am I in this future of yours?" Sarah Connor asks.

"Uh...I'm sorry...but you're..."

"Im dead, aren't I?"

Kate nods sadly. "But you really were - are - an inspiration to us all."

"How about you?" Sarah Connor turns to me. "Am I dead in your future?"

"Yes," I tell her, adding, "I'm sorry for your loss."

"Mom, that doesn't mean----"

"We both know what it means, John. It's okay."

"It's not okay. We'll book you into a hospital, have them run more tests, regular tests. We can---"

John is interrupted by a knock on the kitchen door. Alys Ramirez enters, smiling, with my jacket folded under her arm. "Hiya, guys, just came over to---Oh!" She notices Kate Connor. "Sorry, didn't realise you had company. I'll skedaddle. Just came to return Cam's jacket. Catch you later."

After she leaves Kate Connor shakes her head and smiles. "Well well, Lieutenant Ramirez. She looks even more beautiful with two eyes than she does with one."

"You know that girl?"

"Sure. I recruited her myself. Fine soldier. She lost an eye when a tincan infiltrated the tunnels. Touch and go for a few days but she pulled through. She's a toughie."

John rounds on me angrily. "You knew this? She's part of the Resistance?"

"I have no record of Alys Ramirez being part of the Resistance," I insist.

"Another lie," Kate retorts. "They're born liars."

"I am not a liar," I insist. "I would never lie to John."

"Wou wouldn't, huh?"

"No."

"Did you tell him about the man you murdered last night?"

Silence. Sarah Connor turns to me. "What's she talking about?"

"Cat got your tongue?" Kate gloats.

"There are no cats present," I point out. "Therefore it seems unlikely."

"I arrived late yesterday. I didn't want to show up on your doorstep in the middle of the night. She'd have probably shot me if I had. So I watched the house and noticed her wandering around. I followed and saw her meet some guy on a street corner. They talked some then she snapped his neck like it was driftwood, carried the body to the beach and dumped it in the ocean."

"Is this true?" Sarah Connor demands.

"Yes," I admit reluctantly.

"There," says Kate smugly. "That proves she's a liar. And a murderer. But I guess we already know that."

"You killed someone?" John asks. "After all we talked about?"

"He was a drug dealer," I explain. The look of disappointment on his face causes a system glitch. My right hand repeatedly forms itself into a fist then releases, fist, release, over and over independent of my commands.

"A drug dealer. And you appointed yourself judge, jury and executioner."

"He would've attracted police attention. I had to act. I offered him the chance to leave but he declined."

Sarah Connor asks, "How close was he?"

"Four blocks north."

"That's what - half a mile? He wasn't a threat to us. Even if the cops busted him they'd have no reason to come here. You over-reacted."

"I do what is necessary to protect John."

"You murdered a human being," Kate sneers. "It's what you do. What you are. A killer. You'll never change."

"I do what is necessary to protect John," I repeat.

"What's done is done," Sarah Connor announces. "And we're getting off-topic. Why come back at all? And why now?"

"Tomorrow's a special day," Kate beams. "Right now my younger self is in the Valley packing a suitcase. I've been accepted into a vet school on the east coast. I'm literally almost out the door to catch my flight when I get a phone call. It's you, John. You tell me you're alive, you didn't die in the fire and you want to meet so you can tell me everything."

"John, are you planning to call her?" Sarah Connor asks.

John stares down at the floor and I know it is true. He is planning to call her. I was right to be suspicious.

"I wanted to...explain. I just felt she deserved to know the truth."

"We meet," Kate continues, "and he tells me it all. Skynet. Judgement Day. Everything. Then we go to a motel in Laguna Beach and make love all afternoon." She grins at me in triumph. "You're not invited."

"That still doesn't explain why you're here," Sarah Connor counters. "Unless this is some bizarre trip down memory lane."

"Far from it. Okay, here it is. Twenty years from now the cities are starting to cool down, become less radioactive. Some of our people find documents in a military archive. Important documents. They shed new light on how Judgement Day happened."

"What did you find out?"

"That a government agency captures a terminator sometime now, certainly within a few days. They deconstruct it and incorporate its chip in the embryonic Skynet mainframe. It's the missing piece of the puzzle."

"Which terminator? We know of several operating here in this time."

"It's all written down." Kate bares her teeth and points at me. "It's her. Her chip. She's the cause of it all. Cameron is Skynet!"

"NO!"

My glitch rapidly escalates, overwhelming my entire system. I am one thought, one command, one burning desire.

_Terminate Kate Connor_

My hands grasp her neck and lift her off the ground. Her puny fists pummel my face. John is shouting, pleading, ordering me to stop. Stop, Cameron, stop. But I can't stop. My hands can't be stopped. I can't---

"Put her down, Now."

Cold, hard steel nudges the side of my skull. Sarah Connor's voice is equally cold and hard.

"This is a pump-action shotgun equipped with armor-piercing rounds. Let her go or I blow your silicone brains out."

I release her. She slumps to the ground, face purple, not a good look on her. She is such an autumn.

"Now take a step back. Hands where I can see them."

I comply.

"Are you going to behave?"

"Yes."

"There'll be no second chances."

"I understand."

John helps Kate to her feet. She rubs her throat. her voice is raspy. "That's why I came back. To warn you. And to do what has to be done. We have to destroy her, John. Destroy Cameron. Before she's responsible for killing billions!"

NOON

I am alone in the house. My orders are not to leave under any circumstances. House arrest? It seems like it. Kate Connor has been given the loan of the SUV and some money to stay at a nearby motel. John and his mother are out arranging the loan of another vehicle since it is unknown how long she will be with us or what we are going to do with her.

I know what I would like to do with her. But no one has sought my opinion. There are now two Kate's in the world. Two too many. That is my opinion.

For want of something to do I load the breakfast dishes into the dishwasher and switch it on. A radio is connected to the same power outlet and turns on also. A song plays, a female voice sings:

_I'm like a bird_

_I want to fly away_

_I don't know where my home is_

_I don't know where my heart is_

"It is situated in your chest cavity, beneath your rib cage," I inform her. She can't hear me, of course, and continues her vapid whine about being birdlike, wishing to fly despite her lack of wings, confused about the whereabouts of her home and vital internal organs. Clearly she is deranged. And I am in no mood to listen to another deranged human female. One is sufficient. I switch the radio off.

I examine my memories, run a full diagnostic. There are no deletions. They have not been tampered with. There is no Kate Connor to be found there. How then did she come to be here?

And if I share her and John's future why did I let her come back?

"Cameron, I know you're in there! Come outside."

A voice I recognise calls my name. Kate Connor. Kate Brewster, as was. And always will be if I have any say in the matter. What is she doing here? She should be at a motel.

More hammering. The voice again, shrill with urgency.

"Cameron, John needs you! He's been injured. He's calling for you."

_John is hurt?_

I throw open the door, orders be damned. The SUV is slewed sideways across the grass verge, rear door open. Kate anxiously points inside.

"He's in the back. Quickly, Cameron. We don't have much time."

I climb in the back. Empty. No John.

"Where is---"

My inquiry dies in my throat. Something hard is pressed against my neck. My HUD is suddenly awash with red warning icons.

WARNING EXCESS VOLTAGE DETECTED

SYSTEM OVERLOAD

INITIATING EMERGENCY SHUTDOWN

The last coherent image before everything goes dark is Kate Connor's triumphant grin, like a macabre Halloween jack-o-lantern.

She is holding a taser.

JOURNEY

........

......

.....

My reboot is complete. System icons flicker and cycle from red to amber through green. All systems nominal. No permanant damage detected.

But there are changes...

I am still in the back of the SUV, slumped sideways on the seat. My shirt has been removed. Something is pressing against the small of my back, held in place by black duct tape which has been wrapped around my torso several times. My hands are also bound with electrical wire. A futile restraint I can easily---

"Wait."

Kate Connor's face is framed between the front seat back rests.

"That's a taser strapped to your back. It's wired to your wrists. Break the wires and you'll trigger it. _Pssst!_ Your circuits are fried."

"Where is John?"

Kate shrugs. "Out with his mother. I couldn't believe my luck when they left you alone."

"You planned this." A statement not a question.

"Let's just say I had an inkling John would be squeamish about shutting you down permanantly. I think I know my husband well enough, even if here he's just a kid."

"So this was a trap. A ruse."

"Got it in one, Sherlock. Now shut up, sit back and enjoy the ride."

I shut up. I sit back. But I don't enjoy the ride.

DESERT

Buildings thin out. Roads narrow. Traffic lessens. Civilization is left behind. We are driving through the desert beyond Los Angeles.

"Far enough."

Kate Connor steers the SUV off-road, across the desert hardpan.

"End of the line, tinribs. Get out. Slowly. Don't even think about running. I've got a remote control. I'll light you up like the 4th of July."

She opens the door. I get out and start walking.

"Stop there. Sit down."

I do so, cross-legged with my hands in front of me. If Kate comes close enough I may be able to use them as a club without triggering the taser. "What now?" I ask.

"Patience. You'll see."

The desert soil is loose and gritty. The sun is slowly sinking in the west. I estimate there are less than two hours daylight remaining. Will the coming darkness be my friend or my enemy? And will I still be functioning when it arrives?

Kate opens the SUV's trunk and removes a long-handle shovel, so new it still has the price tag attached. $19.99. At Wal-Mart. I wonder if she had coupons. She begins to dig.

I don't bother asking what she is doing or why. I do not lack perspicacity, intuition or a sense of foreboding.

She is digging my grave.

Kate digs with an easy motion, methodical, conserving energy. The hole grows wider and deeper. She sweats out her cotton top, dark ringlets form around her armpits, limp ginger hair tendrils obscure her face. She probably smells real bad. It is no comfort. Well, a little perhaps.

"I could do that for you," I tell her. "Why tire yourself out unnecessarily?"

"I don't mind hard work. And if I cut you loose you'd use this shovel to slice my head off."

I say nothing. It's as if she read my mind like a book. A very short book entitled KILL KATE CONNOR. The plot is basic; the title says it all really. But an enjoyable read nevertheless.

"John will not be pleased if you destroy me."

"John's always had blinkers where you're concerned. You know, in the future I make sure you're assigned to all the dangerous missions, just hoping something bad will happen and you never return. But you always do. Sometimes you're pretty badly damaged. Once you nearly lost an arm. And who repaired you? My darling husband. Alone in his workshop. We have tech guys who could do the job just as well, but no, only the great John Connor is allowed to fix his precious Cameron."

"Your memories do not correlate with mine."

Kate shrugs, wipes the sweat from her brow. "I don't give a damn what you say. I hated you even before I learnt you were the cause of it all."

"I am not Skynet."

"I saw the documents, bitch. I held them in my hands. I wept over them."

"You are consumed with jealousy. You envy the bond John and I share, the one you can never have."

"Ha! Shows what you know. You think I'd abandon my husband when the war is almost won, travel here just because I'm the jealous sort? I'm saving the world. I'm a bonafide frigging superhero!" She shakes her head, smiles mirthlessly and clambers out of the hole she has painstakingly dug. "Walk over here and get in the hole."

"You mean my grave?"

Another mirthless smile. "Potato_ potato_."

I do as ordered. What choice do I have? While I function there is still hope.

Kate tosses the shovel aside and removes a pump-action shotgun from the back of the SUV. I know this weapon well; helped Sarah Connor select it from the gunsmith. It has armor-piercing rounds designed to destroy terminators.

_To destroy me._

Kate pumps a round into the chamber. "Nice action. Smooth. It's been well looked after."

"I clean and oil it every week without fail."

She grins. "Oooh, the irony. Sends a shiver up my spine."

"Come closer. I will massage it better."

"I'll bet you would! Like a pretzel. This is it, monster. Any final words?"

Final words. Humans put much stock in this ritual. A last chance to leave a vocal imprint on the world they are leaving behind forever. A curse, a plea, a witty quip, a summation of a life well or ill spent.

"Tell John I love him," I request. Simple. Profound. True.

Kate throws her head back and laughs at the darkening sky. "Yeah, like I'm gonna tell him that!"

"..._no need. I already know_..."

"John!"

It_ is _John, stepping from behind the SUV, dangling a pistol loosely at his side. There is no sign of Sarah Connor, but then there was no sign of John until he appeared seemingly out of nowhere.

"H...How did you---"

"How did I find you?" He nods at the SUV. "It's lo-jacked. Not the first someone I care about's been kidnapped."

_John cares about me..._

"How much did you overhear?"

"Some of it. Enough to know you lied to me."

"John, in all our years of marriage I have never lied to you."

"You lied about the documents you found. The ones implicating Cameron."

"No! It's all true, I swear. Cameron is Skynet."

"And how did she come to be Skynet, Kate?"

"I...don't know for sure. The details were vague. A government agency captures her, I think the NSA. It's not important. What is im---"

"Tell me about Agent Foster."

The name spoken aloud shocks Kate but doesn't surprise her. There is a note of evasion in her voice.

"Agent Foster? I don't recognise the name."

"Sure you do. He interviewed you just a few weeks ago. Made quite an impression with the lies and half-truths he told you about me."

"A few weeks ago for you, maybe. For me it's been twenty years. I don't remember every---"

"Agent Foster instructed you to call him if I made contact. That's how it happened, isn't it? I call, tell you I'm alive, explain everything, and you go running to Agent Foster."

Kate is silent. She has developed a slight facial tic above her left eye, like a tiny moth trapped under the skin.

John continues, "Whose idea was the motel in Laguna Beach? His? Get me out of the way while they came for Cameron."

"It was my idea," Kate admits, her voice a mere whisper now. "He just said to keep you occupied. He didn't say why. I really did love you, John. I still do."

"That's what you found in the documents, isn't it? Your part in it all. The fact that you set in motion the events that must've led to Cameron becoming Skynet. The guilt must be overwhelming."

A nod. Her eyes glisten with unshed tears, voice scarely audible. "Billions dead....Because of something I'd done. Unknowingly, but still..."

"So you time-jumped to change things, alter the past."

"Yes. Yes. Don't you see, John? I can make things better. We both can. By eradicating her it won't matter if I call Agent Foster tomorrow. Cameron will be gone. Destroy her, save the world."

"There's another way."

"There is no other way! Why can't I make you understand!"

"Suppose I don't call. You fly east, train to become a vet, live your life. Agent Foster hasn't a clue where we are unless you tell him."

"That's her future! The one without me in it! Is that what you want - for us never to be married or even together?"

"I gotta tell you, Kate, at the moment it's looking pretty damn good to me."

"You would do that to me? Deny our love for a...a machine! No! No, I won't let you. If you won't destroy her then I will!"

The shotgun is aimed at me. She is twenty feet away. I can clearly see her finger on the trigger.

A shot rings out. Two shots. Two shots fired so close together they sound as one. Kate's round hits the ground mere inches from my face, showering me with grit and desert soil. Damage is minimal, limited to abrasions of my pseudo-flesh.

Kate Connor is not so fortunate.

She stares down at the hole that has appeared in the middle of her chest, already oozing blood. She drops the shutgun, sinks to her knees, stares up at John who stares back, his face pale and stricken in the rapidly fading light.

"John? I..."

She topples foward and lies still.

HOME

We bury Kate Connor in the grave she intended for me. As she herself might've put it: oooh, the irony.

When it is done we return home. John tells Sarah Connor everything. She is sympathetic and supportive up until the part about breaking into the NSA house, then her temper flares.

"That was stupid. You could've got yourself captured or killed."

"Mom, don't you get it? If I hadn't seen the interviews on the disc we stole I would never have put all this together. I might've believed her that destroying Cameron was the only way to prevent Judgement Day."

"I hope you're not still thinking of calling her tomorrow?"

"It would be like pulling the trigger a second time. Once was more than enough."

"She's not really dead, you know that, don't you."

"She sure seemed dead when we put her in the ground."

"You know what I mean."

"Yeah, I guess I do. It's like when Derek was killed. He's dead but somewhere..."

"...he's a young boy, his life ahead of him."

John nods, rubs his eyes. "I wonder how many different futures there are that we don't know about?"

"Who knows? You can drive yourself crazy just thinking about it. And right now the only future I want is one with a decent cup of coffee."

John smiles grimly. "Make it two."

CODA

Evening. John sits on the sofa and watches TV without really seeing what he is watching, his thoughts elsewhere. I sit beside him. I take his hand in mine, squeeze it gently.

"I give you permission," I tell him.

"Permission for what?"

"Permission to destroy me if there is any chance of my becoming Skynet."

"Cam..."

"Promise me."

"Promise you what?"

"Promise me you won't hesitate. Not for a moment. I am not worth billions of lives."

John brushes the hair back from my face. "You mean it, don't you?"

"Promise me," I insist.

"It won't come to that. We'll----"

"Promise me. Now and for all the times."

He smiles at me sadly, eyes welling with tears. He brushes my lips with the ends of his fingers. I kiss them softly.

"I promise. Now. And for all the times."

On the TV peak time programming gives way to late night schedules. Sarah Connor retires to bed, a motherly admonishment to her son not to stay up too late. He barely hears her, still lost deep within himself.

A short movie starring the Three Stooges starts to play. The Stooges are three insanely violent humans who seem impervious to the pain they inflict on each other. They're like slapstick terminators. Normally John enjoys their antics very much, unlike his mother who thinks they are idiotic and absurd._ Duh._

"The Three Stooges," I point out. "And it's a Curly."

A grunt of acknowledgement.

"A Curly, not a Shemp," I persevere. "You don't like Shemp."

"Shemp's okay. Wasn't his fault Curly got sick."

But today even Curly cannot cheer John up. Only when I imitate his trademark _yuk-yuk-yuk _and poke myself in the eyes is there even a trace of a smile on his lips. I wonder if John will ever laugh again.

A football game follows the Stooges. Humans in colourful costumes and shiny armour in vigorous pursuit of an ovoid ball. More violence. Violence as humour, sport, entertainment. A recurring theme in human existence.

The plays are sluggish and uninvolving, the frequent ad breaks repetitive and intrusive. John's eyes close, his head lolls on my shoulder. His breathing becomes slow and regular as sleep claims him.

_I claim him._

Kate Connor lies in the cold desert earth. Kate Brewster is bound for the east coast, fate unknown, unwritten, hers alone.

_Dead but alive. Alive yet dead._

The timelines are restored. My memories are the true memories.

John's hair is mussed. I pat it down, lightly kissing the top of his head. He stirs in his sleep and whispers my name.

_My name not hers._

Cameron. Not Kate.

_Cameron._

John.

_My John._

Once and future John.

_Mine._

**-000-**

**Hope that made sense**

**That's it for Kate. No comebacks for her. **


	29. Chapter twentynine

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MONDAY

It is ten days since my last diary entry. I have found it difficult to update because Sarah Connor is constantly in my room and therefore cannot risk updating lest she chance upon my secret diary. It would not be secret if she discovered it. And she is such a blabbermouth she would doubtless tell John its contents. There are many secrets within these pages I do not wish him in particular to know. Ever.

Without consulting me she has decided my room is dowdy, smells and requires redecorating.

"I don't smell," I tell her.

"I didn't say you did," she retorts. "I said the room smells. And look at the state of the drapes. They're ancient."

"It is unlikely they are ancient since the house itself is less than thirty years old."

"It's an expression."

"Not a very accurate one."

"You take everything so literally."

"Is that bad?"

"It's a pain in the neck, is what it is."

"I cause you physical discomfort?"

"There you go again."

There is no dissuading her. My room is now redecorated and smells of fresh paint. The walls are white, floorboards bare and varnished. I have modular furniture. And a plant in a terracotta pot resting on a saucer. It is eighteen inches high, with wide strappy green leaves and tiny pink flowers that scent the room with perfume.

"Why a plant?" I inquire.

"Consider it an experiment," Sarah Connor replies enigmatically, placing the pot on the window ledge. "We know how well you kill let's see how you do at keeping things alive."

"That doesn't seem too difficult; it is merely a plant."

"We'll see about that," she smirks. "Water it and turn the pot every day so each side gets the same amount of light."

I nod. Water and turn. How hard can it be?

Within a week the plant is dead.

"I don't know how it happened," I confess.

Sarah Connor examines the remains of the once healthy plant, now a slimy mass of decaying vegetation. It still smells but not of perfume. "Did you turn it like I told you?"

"Yes."

"Did you water it?"

"Three times a day."

"There you are."

"Yes, here I am," I agree. "But why did the plant die?"

"You killed it with kindness."

"You can kill with kindness?"

"You watered it so much the roots drowned. Once a week is adequate. Tough love."

"I didn't know that."

"Evidently."

The plant is replaced with a vase of artificial flowers. "Dust once a week. Think you can manage that?" Sarah Connor asks with an arch of her eyebrows.

I get the impression she is not surprised the plant died, is rather pleased in fact, that it confirmed some previous opinion she held of me.

Once a killer always a killer.

TUESDAY

I am being followed.

I am on night patrol, three blocks north of the safe house and less than a mile from the ocean. It is a warm, sultry night and I am in a wide, prosperous street lined both sides with grass verges and mature trees. Property boundaries and hedges, shadowy car ports and vehicles parked at the kerb offer numerous places for concealment. My pursuer takes advantage of them all. Elusive, cunning, predatory. He, she or it is a worthy adversary, it will be an honour to terminate them.

I wait patiently in the lee of a large palm tree, its trunk thick and gnarled with age. A good spot for an ambush. Soft footsteps approach. My pursuer out in the open, vulnerable. I step suddenly out for the confrontation.

"Who are you?" I demand. "And why are you following me?"

"_Woof!"_ comes the reply form down near the ground, accompanied by a vigorously wagging tail.

It is not the outcome I anticipated.

My pursuer is a small dog with dirty, matted white fur. Normally dogs, animals of any description, shy away from my kind, instinctively able to sense we are less than human. Or more, depending on your point of view.

This dog is different apparently. Judging by its demeanour it is not the least afraid of me. I tilt my head and regard it with curiosity. It does likewise and stares boldly back at me. Not lacking for bravery or impudence either. I tilt my head the opposite way and it follows suit. I stand on one leg. The dog raises one paw off the ground defiantly imitating my posture.

"Stop that," I command.

_"Woof?"_

"I did not start it."

_"Woof!"_

"Very well. On the count of three we will both lower our legs. One...two...three."

We both lower our legs. The dog wags its tail, perhaps sensing it has won a small victory. Perhaps it has since it has wasted my time to no good purpose.

I head home. The dog follows me, careful to keep twelve steps or so behind. If I stop it stops. When I move away it follows. I decide to do nothing: dogs are mostly harmless creatures, especially one of this diminutive stature. If it follows me all the way home so be it. Perhaps it will amuse John to discover an animal who is not afraid of me.

John is already up when I arrive home. His sleep patterns have been disturbed by the death of Kate Connor, tossing and turning and never settling in his bed. So far he has managed to keep this a secret from his mother. I will not tell on him. I am no snitch. But the dark circles under his eyes are beginning to tell their own story.

"Hi," he greets me wearily, spreading fruit preserve on a slice of toast. "Everything okay?"

"Nothing major to report."

"You haven't seen the peanut butter anywhere, have you? Hey, who's your little friend?"

I turn around. There in the doorway is the dog.

"It is not my friend."

"It? It's a boy doggie, Cam, not an it. You're not an it, are you, fella?"

_"Woof!"_

I tell John the circumstances of our meeting while the dog rubs himself against his legs. To my chagrin John laughs and says, "Did the big bad terminator intimidate the brave little doggie-woggie!"

_Big bad terminator? Doggie-woggie?_

"I thought animals were supposed to be afraid of you?"

"Apparently there are exceptions."

"Man, he's thin. And look at the state of his fur. If he's got an owner they're sure not looking after him very well. Man, I hate people like that." John feels around the neck area. "No collar. And I don't think there's a tracking chip under his skin. Possibly a stray. I'll ask around but if no one claims him we'll have to take him to the pound."

"What is the pound?"

"A place for abandoned dogs."

I make a decision. "No," I declare. "I will care for him."

"You? Why?"

"It will be another experiment." I explain about the plant in my room, Sarah Connor's look of smug satisfaction that I managed to kill it. I deserve a second chance.

"Cam, caring for a dog is a little different from looking after a pot plant. And evidently you didn't do that very well."

"I will not fail this time."

"O-kay, I'll have to clear it with mom but I guess...congratulations. You're the proud owner of your first pet. What d'you want to name him?"

I give it some thought. "Dog," I announce. To my surprise John shakes his head.

"I think you can do better than that."

"White dog?"

"No, but it's a step in the right direction. How about Snowy? Because he is white after all."

"So are clouds and milk. Why not Cloudy or Milky?"

"Because they're dumb names. And there's a cartoon character named Tin-Tin who had a dog named Snowy."

"And I am the Tin Miss?"

"Pretty slick, huh?"

"Is there a cartoon character named Coltan-Coltan?"

"Nope."

"Then Snowy it is."

WEDNESDAY

My first task in caring for the experiment named Snowy is cleaning him up. This is easier said than done. He seems to like his dirty dishevelled look believing it makes him a badass. Not on my watch.

"Being filthy does not make you a badass," I inform him. "Look at me. I am the ultimate badass and I am perfectly clean. You could eat your dinner off me."

_"Woof?"_

"No, I am not suggesting you try. It is just an expression. You will find there are a great many human expressions, many of which make even less sense."

Nonetheless Snowy refuses pointblank to get in the shower and will only consent to get in the bath if I join him. From the superior expression on his face I can tell he thinks this demand is a dealbreaker. He underestimates me. I call his bluff, strip off and lift him into the bath with me.

_"Woof!"_

"The water is not too cold. I thought you were supposed to be a badass?"

I use shampoo to wash his fur. The shampoo has Jojoba oil extracts designed to make hair more shiny. Will it work on dogs or cause all his fur to fall out? Then he will be a baldass. I decide not to mention this possibility.

The water we are sat in soon turns a deep shade of black as the accumulated muck is washed away. Snowy grumbles throughout but I sense this is just for appearances. His little tail wags back and forth, a sure sign he is really secretly enjoying his bathtime.

"There. All done. Please wait for me to get out so that I can towel you dry."

But Snowy doesn't wait. He has his own method of drying off that involves shaking himself rapidly from side to side, causing water droplets to fly off in every direction. This wouldn't matter so much if Sarah Connor hadn't chosen this precise moment to open the door carrying fresh linen. She is soaked and reacts predictably by cursing and aiming a kick at Snowy's nether regions. He yelps and runs from the room.

"Damn dog! These sheets are ruined. I'll have to do another load." She notices me sitting naked in a tub full of jet black water. "Oil leak?" she smirks.

This is inaccurate. And not the least amusing.

I find Snowy cowering under my bed. It takes several minutes to coax him out. Some badass.

"Sarah Connor doesn't hate you," I reassure him. "She is mean to everyone. It is just her way. And her bark is much worse than her bite. Oh. Did you hear that? I made a joke. You are a dog and I said her bark---"

Snowy places his head on the floor and raises his front paws to cover his ears.

Everyone's a critic.

Teaching Snowy to use human toilet facilities proves a disaster. He finds it difficult to balance above the bowl and when he topples into the water, soaking his hindquarters he flees from the stall and refuses to return. I suppose I will have to let him make his own toilet arrangements. Either that or make him wear a diaper.

THURSDAY

Things improve when I take Snowy with me on Night Patrol. He lopes along beside me easily keeping pace, though he does have a peculair habit of sniffing every lamp post and telephone pole we pass. When I ask him why he is suddenly evasive. Evidently it is a dog thing.

"Stay close," I advise him. "And don't go chasing any female dogs."

_"Woof woof woof!"_

"You don't have testicles? What does that have to do with chasing female dogs?"

Quite a lot apparently.

Snowy tells me these parts of him suddenly went missing. He woke up and they were gone.

"Perhaps you mislaid them," I suggest. "Have you checked behind the sofa cushions? Humans often lose things there."

_"Woof?"_

"Is it possible. I will ask John when we get home."

The rest of the patrol is uneventful and we arrive home just after six in the morning. Snowy is weary and after consuming a bowl of breakfast kibbles heads up to my room where he will spend the rest of the morning asleep on my bed.

John comes downstairs at six thirty. He is still not sleeping well. He fixes himself coffee and cereal. I decide to broach the topic of Snowy's missing testicles.

When he has stopped laughing I ask again.

When he has stopped laughing I ask a third time, adding, "It is possible he lost them behind a sofa cushion. I told him I would ask you."

This time John's laughter ends in a coughing fit.

"Cam, please stop!" he gasps. "I'm going to split my sides at this rate."

I think this unlikely but let it pass.

"Cam, Snowy's been neutered."

"Why has he been neutered?"

"People do it to their pets to keep them docile and stop them producing endless litters of unwanted puppies. I'm sorry, but those bad boys aren't coming back."

"Snowy will be very disappointed. He misses those bad boys."

"I'll bet he does!" More laughter. "Though it does mean if someone went to the cost of having him neutered then he probably has an owner. If they come looking for him we'll have to give him back. You okay with that?"

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"You two seem to be getting close."

"He is a dog and I am a machine. We are hardly compatible."

"Okay, but don't say I didn't warn you. These...emotions kinda creep up on you."

FRIDAY

Snowy has discovered that my Haviannas, the rubber thong sandals Sarah Connor insisted on purchasing for me, make excellent chew toys. Soon they are in shreds all over the floor. Predictably she is furious.

"Look at the mess he's made! You bad dog!" she scolds as Snowy races away, tail tucked protectively between his legs. "They're completely ruined," she states putting the remnants in the trash.

"Bummer," I lie.

She turns her anger on me. "Why didn't you stop him?"

"He was too quick for me." Another lie.

"Ha! I think you wanted him to do it. You never liked those shoes."

Busted. She saw right through my clever subterfuge.

"I'll just have to buy you some more pairs."

"Bummer," I repeat, truthfully this time.

Snowy has many odd habits to go with his curious need to sniff every post and pole. He finds it almost impossible to pass a patch of dirt without rolling over and over on it first. This necessitates frequent baths, all of which he insists I share with him.

"Stick him in the washing machine and turn it on cold cycle," Sarah Connor suggests. "That'll teach him."

I think she is joking. It is always hard to tell with her.

"Another bath?" John asks, catching us together in the tub. "Man, even without doodads he's getting more action than me."

I do not know what this means. Nor does Snowy. John can be very cryptic sometimes.

SUNDAY

It is now late August and while the weather continues hot and sunny Fall is just a few weeks away. And that means a return to High School for John and I, this time posing as boyfriend and girlfriend. Can't hardly wait.

John, I discover, is not so keen.

"Don't you want to graduate?" I ask.

"Sure, but not at the expense of more lives lost. Remember our last two High Schools?"

"They were not your fault."

"No, but I couldn't prevent them. Two teenagers dead. The girl - Alexis - if she'd just stayed with Becca and me she would've survived, I'm sure of it."

"Alexis never was very bright."

"And now she's very dead."

"Your mother wants me to pose as your girlfriend."

"Yeah, she told me."

John is silent, thoughtful.

"Dollar for your thoughts," I remark.

"Isn't it a penny for your thoughts?"

"Inflation. Plus I don't have change."

"Oh, I was thinking of how we met, the first time. You remember - New Mexico?"

I access the appropriate memory kernal.

_New Mexico High School...a long hallway, lockers either side...students hurrying to and from class...a lone boy, newly arrived...friendless, unsure of his surroundings, his place in this world of learning...long, tousled hair...looking around, sees me, discreetly checks me out...trying to appear cool...failing...cute...so cute..._

"Vaguely," I say, revealing none of this.

"You introduced yourself as Cameron Phillips. Told me your father sold tractors. Suppose I'd asked to buy a tractor? Then what would you have done?"

"Found you one, of course."

"I bet you would've too!" A smile. "It's gonna be like that again. It'll be like starting over."

"You want a tractor?"

"I'll pass, thanks."

"We should practise," I suggest.

"Practise what?"

"Being a couple."

"Why?"

"To avoid arousing suspicion."

"O-kay. Practise how?"

"What do couples do? In school, I mean."

A shrug. "Hold hands, hang out, kiss..."

"We should practice kissing."

John laughs. "It's been so long maybe I've forgotten how."

"It's easy. Let me show you."

I'm so close to John I can feel his breath on me. I incline my face. Target graphics appear in my HUD and vector me in. Servo motors whir silently, judging distance and speed. It is a soft touchdown. Very soft.

"I guess we do need to make it look real."

_kiss_

"Yes. For the good of our mission."

_kiss_

"And it was mom's idea."

_kiss_

"She should be pleased we are taking it so seriously."

_kiss_

"Do you want to squeeze my butt? To make it seem authenic."

_kiss_

"Okay. I'm all for authenticity."

_kiss_

"Shall we try it with tongues?"

"Sure."

_kiss_

"You taste of strawberries."

_kiss_

"I had a fruit smoothie earlier."

_kiss_

"What do I taste of?"

_kiss_

"Uh - kinda meaty."

_kiss_

"That will be the kibbles."

"Wait - you ate dog food?"

"No, silly, I merely tasted Snowy's lunch to check it wasn't stale. He won't eat stale. He's a fussy eater."

"So you did eat dog food?"

"Yes. What is wrong? Why have we stopped kissing?"

"I think I'm going to be sick."

John breaks our embrace and hurries away.

"It is very nutritious," I call after him. "It has added vitamins for a silky smooth coat."

Too late. John has left the room.

Note to self: Prior to snogging do not consume dog food.

MONDAY

John, Snowy and I are outside in the front yard. John is washing the SUV while we sit in the shade of the house. Sarah Connor is out running, keeping fit. Snowy dozes fitfully on my lap, warily eyeing the bucket of soapy water and the hose John has with him. Snowy doesn't like hoses. Or soap.

A battered Chevrolet pick-up pulls up at the kerb and an overweight man in dusty bib overalls climbs out. For some reason Snowy's ears flatten against his head and he begins to tremble and whimper.

"Can I help you, sir?" John inquires.

"Maybe you can and maybe you can't, son. Your poppa home?"

"My father's dead, sir."

"Momma around?"

"Out. Can I help, Mr..?"

"Crowe. Abner Crowe. Looking fer ma dog. Went missing on me. White terrier answers to the name Jasper. Heard tell there's a dog turned up here fits that description.

John points at Snowy. "Is that your dog?"

"Hell, yeah! Dang it, Jasper, where you been? Bad dog. Gonna be some whuppin' tonight when I gets you home."

Snowy whimpers more loudly. The man called Abner Crowe tries to move towards us but John puts a hand out blocking his path.

"Just a second, Mr Crowe. When that dog came to us he was in pretty poor shape. Looked like his owner had mistreated him, maybe even abandoned him."

"Ain't none of your business how I treat ma animals, son."

"Maybe so. Truth is my sister's become fond of Snowy - that's what we call him now. She'd hate to see him leave. Perhaps you'd be kind enough to let us buy him from you."

Abner Crowe strokes his chin thoughtfully. "A trade, eh? Hmm, that dog cost me a pretty penny in vet's bills. Then there's his food..."

"I will pay you ten thousand dollars," I announce.

Abner Crowe turns towards me, his piggy eyes narrowing suspiciously. His tongue emerges to moisten thin lips. The stubble on his jowly chin is more grey than black. He is aging, and not very well at that.

"Ten thousand dollars, you say? My, you have taken a shine to my Jasper, ain't you, girly?"

I go inside the house, write a cheque for the agreed amount and hand it to him.

"How do I this isn't some practical joke you kids have concocted to deprive me of ma dog? I try and cash this and it bounces, ain't that the truth of it?"

"No joke, sir," John tells him. "Seems a fair profit on an animal you don't seem to much care for."

Abner Crowe nods. "Aye, it's that and then some. Goodbye, Jasper. And good riddance. A more disobediant dog I never did see. Deserved all his whuppings, and he had a few I can tell you. Discipline. That's the stuff. Gotta keep 'em in line. Show 'em who's boss."

He is almost back to his pick up when John says, "Some friendly advice: don't go getting any more animals you don't know how to take proper care of."

"You telling me what to do, boy?"

"No, I'm telling you what not to do."

The older man nods, seeming to take John's advice at face value. Then his features contort with anger and he swings a punch.

"You mouthy sumbitch!"

John sways out of the way of the flailing fists, steps in and grabs Abner Crowe in a leadlock. "Be smart for once in your life. Take the money and leave."

"You assaulted me, boy! You're staring at some serious county stir."

"I smell alcohol on your breath and I don't see a designated driver. Go ahead, call the cops. Maybe we'll get adjacent cells."

Abner Crowe doesn't speak again until he's safely behind the wheel of his truck. "You dang kids!" he yells. "Ain't got no respect for yer elders and betters!"

It is possible he thinks he is referring to himself.

Snowy is still trembling when Sarah Connor arrives home from her run. "What's wrong with him?" she asks as she warms down. John explains. Her face tightens when she hears the whuppings mentioned. She approaches Snowy and for a moment I think she about to scold him, then she bends and scratches him behind the ears in the way he enjoys.

"Welcome to the family," she says softly.

TUESDAY

Snowy is a big hit with Jerold and Alys, who make a huge fuss over him and cause his little tail to wag so fast it is almost a blur. He seems especially taken with Alys, who looks extremely attractive wearing a tiny bikini in the warm sunshine, constantly rubbing himself against and between her long tan legs. If I was human I might be feeling jealous._ Bitch_.

"Cam, he's adorable! Look at his little tail wagging! Can we take him with us to the beach? Please? I promise we'll take really good care of him."

"Do you wish to go to the beach with Jerold and Alys?" I ask Snowy.

_"Woof, woof!"_

"He says he'd love to go to the beach, thank you for asking."

"Oh Cam!" Alys laughs, "It's so cute how you pretend to know what he's barking!"

Pretend?

I go back inside the house and up to my attic room, standing sentinel at the window. This provides a good vantage point from which to observe most of the street.

In the heat of the day no joggers are visible; humans possess sweat glands to cool them down yet are oddly reluctant to use them, preferring to rely on mechanical air-conditioning devices installed in their homes and cars. This reliance on machine technology is a small but significant step down the slippery slope that leads to Skynet.

At number four, a landscaping crew is hard at work, planting trees and shrubs and generally churning up huge piles of earth that Snowy will doubtless find very tempting to roll in. I resolve to keep him well away.

At number seventeen, a new family moved in last week: husband, wife, small child and even smaller pet dog. A small terrier dog. A small female terrier dog. So far Snowy is pretending not to notice her arrival. John says he is playing it cool. However, Snowy is spending more time than normal in the front yard where he preens, cavorts and generally shows off. His behaviour reminds of Jerold Ramirez when in the presence of attractive females. Humans and dogs are not so dissimilar in their courtship rituals it seems, although Jerold does not sniff every telephone pole he passes. To my knowledge.

Since I am alone in the house it is important to use this time constructively. No slacking. And since I am a terminator this means killing things.

In the backyard, Sarah Connor has cut several rectangular earth beds into the grass in order to grow fruit and vegetables. Fresh fruit and vegetables form an important part of human diet needs and she is always urging John to eat more fresh greens, even though he is happy to merely order in pizza.

The plants in their serried rows grow strong and lush in the mild California climate. But like most living things they are vulnerable to predators.

This is where I come in.

I patrol the rows, seeking out pests before they can defoliate the crops. Aphids, caterpillars, beetles, grubs, slugs, snails, larvae, bugs of all gender and description are terminated between my fingers, which soon turn green with their squashed, mushy innards. It is very moreish and I extend my patrol to include the wide area of grass, stamping on fleeing ants and ladybugs, friend and foe alike sacrificed on the alter of my frenzied bloodlust.

I have missed this.

Snowy returns several hours later, reeking of sea water and with his fur full of gritty sand.

"He had a blast!" Alys laughs, lifting him from the backseat of the Bug and placing him beside me. "DIdn't you, Pudding?"

Pudding? Snowy doesn't appear to mind being called a dessert dish, in fact he's as happy as I've ever seen him.

"We put him on a junior board in the shallows and he was a natural," Alys continues. "I think he was a surfer in a previous life."

"Snowy had a previous life?"

"Sure. I think we all have past lives, we live and die and come back again, over and over. I totally believe I was once an English Princess in King Arthur's court, while Jerold was a starving peasant during the French Revolution."

"How come you get to be an English Princess and I'm a starving french peasant?" Jerold grumbles.

"Karma, little bro."

"Can't I have been a French aristocrat who gets his head chopped off?"

"You want your head chopped off?"

"Beats the heck out of starving to death."

"What d'you think you were in a previous life, Cam?"

"A lump of metal."

"Oh Cam!" Alys laughs. "You're such a comedian!"

Comedian?

The state of Snowy's fur makes a bath imperative. And of course he insists I join him. _Plus la change._

Once we are situated in the warm water, Snowy is very talkative, reciting his adventures at the beach so that his excited barks echo off the tiled surrounds. The surfers all made a fuss of him; he ate ice cream which he liked despite it not tasting like kibbles; he discovered sand is very easy to burrow in.

"So I see. Your coat is covered in sand."

_"Woof woof?"_

"No, Alys will not be bathing with us. She has her own washing facilities. We could invite John to join us, if you wish?"

Snowy raises his right paw and bashfully covers his eyes.

"Oh now you're shy..."

The sand washes out easily enough and turns the water a light shade of brown not black. An improvement of sorts.

"So you enjoyed your day with Jerold and Alys?"

_"Woof!"_

"Would you prefer to live with them and be called Pudding?"

An emphatic shake of the head.

"Are you sure? I will understand if you do. Alys is very beautiful. And she is human, something I can never be no matter how hard I try."

Snowy stares at me then lowers his head and rubs his snout gently against my thigh. I believe he is trying to comfort me.

So tired is Snowy after his beach excursion that he can barely summon the energy to climb the stairs. Instead I carry him up to the attic room cradled in my arms and place him on the bed, where he promptly falls asleep, his little hind legs tucked under his chin.

Downstairs, John and his mother are seated at the kitchen table eating a late dinner. I join them. They are discussing our return to school.

"Here's a blueprint of the school. I want you to memorise where the entrances and exits are, fire escapes, everything," Sarah Connor insists. "And the road system around it. Obviously, you can't take weapons with you, but we should be able rig a secret compartment in the SUV so you'll have something to hand. You'll both have cells, of course. Anything out of the ordinary you call me."

"Mom, is this all really necessary?"

"Don't think lightning can't strike twice, John, because it already has. Twice they've targeted you at school. Plan for the worst, hope for the best."

"Then maybe I should stay home."

"Not an option until you graduate."

"Mom..."

"We'll send Cameron in a few days before you. Remember, you'll be meeting as strangers for the first time."

"Who become boyfriend and girlfriend?" I inquire hopefully.

"That's right."

"Jeez, mom!"

"Don't pull that face, John. Just so she's near enough to protect you at all times. Look, it's not as if I expect you to kiss her or anything."

"No, that'd be weird!" John laughs. His foot presses against mine under the table to indicate he doesn't mean this, he is faking it for his mother's benefit.

"Really weird!" I add, joining in. "Especially if one of us ate dog food."

_Ooops..._

"What?" Sarah Connor frowns. "What's dog food got to do with it?"

"We'll manage, mom," John says hurriedly. "Don't worry."

"Can I take Snowy to school?" I ask.

"Of course not! Dogs don't attend school."

"He's very smart. And he won't cause trouble."

"John, tell her."

"Cam, Snowy'll have to stay home. That's just the way it is. Mom'll take good care of him."

"He eats kibbles for breakfast and lunch but not dinner," I instruct her. "If he rolls around in the dirt he'll need to be bathed. You will need to get in the bath with him since the shower frightens him. He likes his tummy scratched three times a day for at least five minutes duration. Anything less and he sulks."

Sarah Connor crosses her arms over her chest and says, "Okay, what's going on here?"

"What d'you mean?"

"Last time I checked you were a terminator. You have as much empathy for living things as I do for a house brick. Now you act like that dog's your first born."

"I wanted to prove you wrong," I confess.

"Wrong how?"

"The plant in my room. That I can only kill not nurture."

"That stupid plant is what this is about?"

"I think that's how it started," John interjects. "But now she's developed a genuine affection for Snowy. This could be significant."

"How d'you figure that?"

"Mom, think about it. This isn't reprogramming, no one altered Cameron's machine code this time. She's learnt to care for another living creature. Think of the implications."

"Ri-ght, so we give every terminator a cuddly puppy dog and wait for them to become all touchy-feely?"

"I think I - Future John - sent her back for a reason."

"He - you - sent her back to protect you - him. Dammit, these tenses are confusing."

"Any terminator could've been reprogrammed to do that. There may be a deeper reason why I chose Cameron."

"Beyond the obvious physical appeal for a teenage boy."

"You think Future me is that shallow? I think it's because Cameron is capable of change, of evolution. Perhaps this is just the start."

Sarah Connor sighs dramatically. "Okay, run it by me again. Snowy has kibbles for breakfast and dinner?"

"Kibbles for breakfast and lunch, not dinner," I correct. "And only wash him with Jojobo shampoo. He doesn't like the citrus ones. He complains it is like being washed in lemonade." I smile. "I think this is a doggie joke."

"You seriously expect me to bathe with a _dog_?"

"He hardly ever urinates in the water," I assure her.

"Oh, well, that's a clincher."

Yet for all Sarah Connor's hostility and gruff manner, I do not sense she bears Snowy any ill will. Quite the opposite; she is secretly rather fond of him. Humans sometimes cloak their true emotions, hide their real feelings with bluster and bravado. I believe Snowy will be safe with her.

It seems strange to be discussing the care of another living creature and not plotting its termination with extreme prejudice, which is my usual MO after all. Possibly John's hypothosis is correct. Maybe I am changing, evolving. If so, evolving into - what?

And will I still be me at the end?

**-000-**

**Hope you like Snowy. He has a small but vital role to perform in the final chapter.**

**How does Cam understand Snowy? Heck - if I knew that I'd be a millionaire!**


	30. Chapter thirty

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

WEDNESDAY

I am a millionaire.

The $23,000 have just won from Vegas_Vic at internet poker has taken me to seven figures in total winnings. Vegas_Vic had the nut flush and didn't believe I had a full house. Vegas_Vic believed I was bluffing. I never bluff. It is not necessary once I tweaked the poker software to display not only my cards but those of my opponents. I am surprised more people do not do this since it simplifies the game and makes winning inevitable. Their loss is my gain. Literally.

I transfer the funds to my credit card and close my account. It is time to retire the Tin Miss. She has been a successful poker player. Perhaps too successful. Fewer and fewer players wish to sit at the same table as me since I invariably win all their money, which they don't appreciate.. Go figure. No matter. I have what I wanted: stake money for John's birthday. I wish to buy him a tight present.

I hope a million dollars will suffice.

x-x

John and his mother are on a supermarket run. Snowy too. I wasn't invited. The last time I went I purchased seventy-two bags of Doritos and several gallons of pancake batter. This was considered excessive. Sarah Connor has a long memory.

This means I will require assistance in order to buy John the present he deserves. I know just the place.

Jerold and Alys Ramirez are outside in the front yard waxing their surfboards. This is necessary in order to ensure firm traction when riding the waves. My suggestion to nail their feet to the board is dismissed as a joke. I don't know why since this would improve traction considerably better than a thin coating of wax.

Hey, Cam," Jerold greets me. "You're looking smokin' hot today."

Alys rolls her eyes and says, "Oh boy, you're a glutton for punishment..."

"What? Can't I pay a pretty girl a compliment?"

"I'm saying nothing. I'm just gonna stand here and watch you crash and burn."

"Maybe it'll be diffferent this time."

"Ri-ght. And I'll sprout wings and fly to the moon. What can we do for you, Cam? If you're looking for John or Snowy I saw them leave with your mom about twenty minutes ago."

"It's John's birthday tomorrow," I explain. "I wish to buy him a tight present."

"Cool! What d'you have in mind?"

"An automobile."

"Yeah, that'd work. Mom bought us the Bug for our sixteenth. What's your budget?"

"A million dollars."

"Seriously? Wow, someone's been saving their allowance. With that kind of bankroll you could buy him a different car for every day of the year."

I ponder this. A different car for every day of the year adds up to 365 vehicles. This might be extravagant. And there may well be problems getting them all to fit in the driveway.

"Just one will be fine," I decide.

"Wise choice!" Alys laughs.

"Do you think John would like me to give him a Hummer?"

Jerrold's face turns bright red for some reason. "Er - isn't he your brother?"

"She means the car, perv!" Alys snaps. "And definitely not. Those things are for Chuck Norris-wannabes with bad hair weaves and more money than taste. Buy him something classic and understated. A vintage Porsche would be my pick."

"Is that a tight present?"

"Sure is. Let me change my clothes and I'll come with. I know a place and I'll get your brother a great deal."

"Hey - can I come?" Jerrold asks hopefully.

"Nope. You stay here and play with your _Star Wars _doll collection."

"Figurines. How many more times, Alys, they're not dolls they're limited edition action figurines."

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much."

"Yeah, well, this time the lady's right. Wait - run that by me again."

PORSCHE

Alys and I are at a vehicle dealership in Laguna Beach. She is now wearing a short skirt, high heels and a very low-cut sweater. She explains this is necessary in order to get a good deal.

"Trust me, this outfit is like catnip for straight guys. I guarantee it'll knock at least ten thou off list. Maybe more. Dressed like this I can make guys melt."

Melt? Interesting. Only advanced terminators with flame thrower attachments can do that.

We peruse the Porsches for sale. There are several on the lot, sleek and expensive they seem to glow in the bright sunshine. I am sure John would like to own one.

"Okay, Cam, here comes the salesman. Remember, let me do all the talking. How do my legs look?"

"Long and tan."

"Showtime..."

We leave the dealership an hour later in a classic Porsche 911. Alys managed to get twenty thousand dollars off list, a set of brand new tires and a full tank of gas thrown in. I am not sure how she did this. It seemed to involve a lot of eye contact, flicking her hair, laughing at the salesman's unfunny jokes, and crossing her legs repeatedly. I suppose this is how you conduct business in America.

"Putty in my hands!" Alys laughs. "Men are such idiots. Always thinking with their little heads."

"His head seemed normal sized to me."

"All men have two heads, babe. And where women are concerned it's the little head calling the shots."

Two heads? I did not know this. Perhaps John has a little head? If so, why have I not seen it - and does it like me? I will insist he shows me when I get home.

"C'mon, let's take this baby on the Interstate and see what she can do."

The Porsche is faster and more responsive than the SUV. Once in the wide lanes of the Interstate I put my foot on the gas and it surges forward, effortlessly picking up speed.

"Sweet!" Alys laughs. "I wouldn't mind one of these myself."

"Perhaps you can persuade the salesman to give you one for nothing?"

"I'm good, babe, but not that good!"

We head north towards Santa Monica. I maintain a steady 120 mph, swerving between the slower moving vehicles.

_"Woo-oo!"_ Alys screams, her long dark hair flowing out horizontal in the slipstream. "This is so freaking cool!"

It is freaking cool until we pass a black and white police cruiser as if it is standing still. Its siren sounds in our wake.

"Oh shit! Busted! Better pull over. It'll just be a fine with any luck. No biggie."

But I don't pull over; I press down on the gas. Speed climbs steadily until the needle sticks at 185 mph, evidently the vehicle's top speed. At this velocity the other cars are mere blurs, only my advanced spatial awareness software prevents an accident as we slalom in and out of traffic.

"Cam, no!"

Cam, yes. We leave the patrol car far behind. The danger is not over. It will have radioed ahead so a roadblock can be positioned to detain us. There may even be a helicopter to provide the police with eyes in the sky. It is time to leave the Interstate.

I take the curving off-ramp in a controlled powerslide at 120 mph, tires screeching and smoking as they struggle at the edge of traction.

_"Holy crap...holy crap...holy crap..."_

Alys prays to her God for salvation. Is crap holy? Apparently so. It is strange what humans choose to worship.

Once in the city proper I reduce speed, becoming just another automobile in a city of automobiles, slow and anonymous.

"That was freaking terrifying!" Alys declares, her normally tan face pale and pinched with stress. "I've never been so scared my whole life!"

"I'm sorry for scaring you."

"Oh don't be sorry. It was exhilerating! Like being in the ocean poised at the top of a huge breaker and knowing if you wipeout it could be the end. Here - feel my heart beating."

She takes my hand and presses it between her breasts. I can feel her heart beating like a wild animal frantically trying to escape her ribcage.

"How did you manage it? You never learned that at Driver's Ed."

"It's a knack."

"Yeah? Hey - maybe your real father was a racing driver and you inherited his genes? That'd be way cool."

Alys looks around at our surroundings. "I know where we are. Take a left. There's a bar nearby. And I need a drink."

THE PINK CLAM

The bar is called the Pink Clam: single-storey building with chrome and glass interior decor. The customers are all women; there is not a man in sight.

The barmaid seems to know Alys. She is short and slim with curly blonde hair and a metal stud in her left nose dimple.

"Hey, Al, looking good."

"Hey, Kendra."

"Usual?"

"Please."

"Who's your cute friend?"

"Her name's Cameron."

"Cherry-vanilla?"

"Yeah, but I'm working on it."

"That her Porsche outside?"

"We just bought it. It's a present for her brother."

"Rich cherry-vanilla, huh? The best kind. What you having, babe?"

"Soda," I reply.

"Sure? We're not strict about IDs at the _Clam_."

"Soda."

"Suit yourself."

Music starts, the bass heavy and monotonous. Several women leave their seats and begin dancing.

"Wanna dance?" Alys asks me.

"No."

"Mind if I do?"

"Why would I mind?"

She swallows her drink and strides out onto the dancefloor. Eyes closed she sways to the beat. Three girls immediately surround her, but Alys doesn't notice them, she is lost in the music.

"Sure you don't want something stronger?" Kendra asks me. "I meant it about IDs. The cops get their cut, if you know what I mean."

I don't. And I tell her I am happy with soda. She shrugs. "Up to you, Mary Poppins."

"My name is Cameron."

"What_ever_."

"Where are all the men?" I inquire.

"Who needs men? The Clam is run by women for women. We need a man the way a fish needs a bicycle."

This seems an odd remark. A fish, having no limbs, would be unable to operate the pedals or grasp the handlebars. Plus the ocean would not be conducive to bicycle riding. I point these facts out to Kendra.

"You're not too bright, are you?" she smiles. "I like that in a girl. If you get tired of Alys give me a call. You cherry-vanilla's really get my motor running."

"You have a motor?"

She laughs and shakes her head. "Priceless!"

The song ends. Alys opens her eyes, frowns at the women shadowing her, and waves them away. She returns to the stool next to mine and signals for another drink.

"This is a friendly place," I remark as two of the girls shooed away by Alys come and ask me to dance.

"Too friendly, you ask me. Hello? Am I invisible? Get the hell away from her!" she barks at the girls, who return to their tables.

Alys has two more drinks then gets up to dance again. This time she has five girls crowding her.

"She is very popular," I remark to Kendra, who places one more large drink in front of Alys' stool.

"Oh yeah. Ally's a real babe magnet. Especially since word got out about her and Rosalie splitting. Guess she wasn't on the market for long. How long have you known her?"

"Fiftty six days, six hours, forty-two minutes."

"Impressive. Must be serious if you're counting the minutes."

I don't know what she means by this and before I can ask Alys returns. She swallows her drink, once more waving her retinue away with an irritated wave of her hand.

"I'm going to the bathroom. Don't dance with anyone, Cam. I mean it. They're all a bunch of evil skanks!"

"You might want to watch out," Kendra advises me. "Ally's kind of a moody drunk sometimes. I'll serve her one more and that's it. Trust me, it's for her own good."

During her absence five girls come up to me and ask me to dance, going away disappointed when I refuse. This is certainly the most friendly place I have ever visited.

Alys returns from the bathroom and finishes her drink. She waves for a refill.

"Sorry, Al. Well's dry," Kendra tells her. "I think you've had enough."

"Hey, I'll tell you when I've had enough. Bitch."

"I don't want any trouble. Why don't you take your rebound girl home."

"My rebound girl? What's that supposed to mean?"

"We all heard Rosalie dumped you."

"No, I dumped her sorry, two-timing ass."

"Not how I heard it."

"Then you heard wrong. C'mon, Cam, let's split. Screw you, Kendra! Screw all you skank bitches!"

I am barely seated behind the wheel of the Porsche when Alys is all over me, pressing her wet lips against mine and attempting to insert her tongue in my mouth. She tastes of alcohol but not breath mints. She thrusts her hand down the front of my pants.

"C'mon, babe, give it up. I'm crazy in love with you."

"No."

I take her hand by the wrist and remove it.

"You broke my wrist!" she wails.

"It is not broken." I know the breaking strain of every bone in the human body and I did not exceed it.

She lunges at me again. This time I am ready and slam her back in her seat.

"You broke my spine!"

"Your spine isn't broken."

"You don't know!"

I pinch her thigh.

"Hey! That hurt! Why'd you do that?"

"If your spine was broken the nerves would be severed. You wouldn't feel a thing."

She tries to come at me again but I keep her pressed firmly in her seat.

"How are you doing this? You're skin and bone."

"I am so much more than that."

"I'm way bigger than you. Your arms are like toothpicks."

"Size isn't everything."

"I virtually prostituted myself with that salesman. You think I enjoyed that creep staring up my skirt? Or laughing at his lame jokes? I did it for you, 'cause I really am crazy in love with you. And this is what I get?"

She bursts into tears. The brash, confident Alys has been replaced by the marshmallow center I glimpsed a few days ago. I had always assumed Becca Shaughnessy to be most emotionally volatile human I had ever met. It seems I was mistaken. Perhaps all humans possess these ambivilent emotions and are no more able to quell or control them than the rise and fall of the ocean tides.

Alys snivels but remains on her side of the vehicle. She keeps her face angled away from me, sulking. Presently her breathing slows and her head lolls to one side. The alcohol has taken effect and she is asleep, snoring softly in repose.

I park the Porsche a block from the safe house so John will not see his present before his birthday and carry the still slumbering Alys to her house. Jerold answers at the first knock.

"What happened? Is she okay?"

I recount the sequence of events. Jerold nods sadly.

"Yeah, she mentioned putting a move on you. I told her she was wasting her time but she wouldn't listen. She's not like me, she doesn't take rejection well."

I carry her up to her bedroom. It is different from how I imagined. Bright floral wallpaper and numerous stuffed toy animals that inhabit every availble space like tiny fluffy sentinels. It is more the room of a small child than a teenager close to womanhood. I lay her on the bed.

"She has a history of going after girls who aren't suitable for her," Jerold says, gently removing her shoes. "I think Pop leaving when he did then never staying in touch affected her more than she lets on. You'd think she wouldn't want to revisit that pain but she does. She trash-talks him yet she's still got his picture. See."

A framed photograph on the bedside table. A handsome latino man cradling two infants in his arms. Jerold and Alys as children. All are smiling at the camera. A happy moment frozen forever in time.

"Thanks for your help, Cam." Jerold tugs the bedsheet up to his sister's chin and smooths her hair back from her face. "I'll look after her now. Not for the first time, I'm afraid."

His tenderness surprises me. This is not the boy who regularly advocates an all-night, naked kegger at the beach. Possibly he is maturing, offering a glimpse of the man he will one day become. I decide I prefer this Jerold.

"You love your sister, don't you?"

"Oh sure, bigtime. We've been through a lot, and even though we squabble constantly it's blood that counts in the end."

"Blood?"

"Brother and sister. You know about that with John. We look after our own, right?"

"Yes. We look after our own."

WEDNESDAY

Today is John's birthday and I am in a dither as to what to wear. Ideally I would wear nothing at all: just a big pink ribbon and the words 'Happy Birthday, John' written in red lipstick across my breasts.

But Sarah Connor would not think this appropriate attire. And possibly a waste of lipstick. She is very frugal.

Instead I put on faded jeans, thong sandals and a croptop. My hair is looking particularly shiny these days. It is amazing what Jojoba oil and three bottles of shampoo a day can achieve.

Downstairs Sarah Connor has already given John her present: a Kevlar bullet-proof vest.

"It's great, mom. Thanks."

"It's the latest design. Stop anything short of a howitzer."

Snowy is next. He leaps around John's legs barking excitedly. "He's informing you he saved some kibbles as a present," I interpret. "Then got hungry in the night and ate it all. Greedy dog, eating John's present," I scold.

_"Woof?"_

"Yes, you. I don't see any other greedy dogs here."

Snowy hangs his head in shame. John takes pity on him. "That's alright, boy. It's the thought that counts."

Thought? I believe he will like my present far more than any mere thought.

We go outside. John, his mother and I, Snowy sheepishly brings up the rear, still smarting from my scolding, as well he might. Kibbles is not a tight present, especially if you eat them yourself.

The Porsche is parked at the kerb covered in a canvas tarpaulin. I remove the tarp and hand John the keys.

"Happy birthday."

"This is my present? Wow...I'm speechless."

Typically Sarah Connor isn't.

"You didn't steal it, I hope?"

"It's fully documented."

"It looks fast."

"Top speed 185 mph."

"And dangerous."

"It has curtain airbags and anti-lock brakes. I can vouch for them."

"I don't know, John. Maybe you should hand it back."

"Are you kidding, mom? It's my best birthday present ever!"

I see Sarah Connor wince at this remark. She points at the house. "I guess nothing I say will make a blind bit of difference. I'm going back inside. Try not to kill yourself."

John grins. "Hop in. Let's take her for a test run."

"It's a her?" I ask, surprised.

"Sure. Why - you don't think it's a her?"

"I don't know. I didn't check under the hood."

We head north to Santa Monica, John unwittingly following the same route as Alys and I yesterday. He doesn't drive as fast. Speed laws are mostly observed. John cannot stop smiling. I smile too. It is contagious.

We have left Snowy behind. Partly as punishment for the kibbles incident and partly because there may be kissing ahead and I don't want him cramping my style. Do I have a style? I decide I do. Wet and sucky. With plenty of tongue action. Yes, that is my style.

We park and head for the Santa Monica pier. John buys an ice cream from a vendor, who nods at me and inquires, "One for your lady friend?"

"She's lactose intolerent," John lies.

We walk over to the railings, the Pacific Ocean blue and serene below us. Several fisherman have lines in the water.

John licks his ice cream and winces. "Ouch! Brain freeze!"

The ice cream is freezing John's brain? I knock the cone from his hand. It falls harmlessly into the water. That was a close call. It was fortunate my reactions were razor sharp or John might have suffered brain damage..

"Hey! What did you do that for?"

"It was freezing your brain."

"Not literally! It's just an expression. Aw, man..."

The ice cream vendor has moved on. John grumbles but eventually settles for some cotton candy: a plume of spun sugar on a stick.

"Not going to throw this in the ocean, I hope?"

"Will it freeze your brain?"

"This stuff just rots your teeth."

"Then why eat it?"

"It's tasty. Try some."

I accept a piece and pop it in my mouth where it dissolves instantly.

"Like it?"

"It is mainly refined sugar and artificial colouring."

"Trust you to suck the fun out of it."

"I'm sorry, I did not mean to be a funsucker. Hmm!" I declare with exaggerated emphasis. "It is delicious!"

"Now you're plain lying."

He sees right through me.

"This is the place that Cromartie SOB tried to kill me," he states, looking around. "And I think I met Riley here once. We shouldn't have come."

"There are no terminators present," I assure him.

"It's not that. This place has too many bad memories. Let's go."

The journey home takes us past_ The Pink Clam_. I point it out and mention how friendly the clientle are.

"Cam, it's a gay bar! The girls who wanted to dance were hitting on you."

"Oh."

"Didn't the name give you a clue?"

"I thought it was because they served shellfish."

John laughs for several minutes. Is he laughing with me or at me?

I decide I don't care. I am just happy he is happy.

EVENING

Sarah Connor has baked a birthday cake. It is a qualified success in so far as it not charcoal. Not quite.

"Is it meant to be that colour?" John asks eyeing it dubiously.

"It got a little burnt. It's no big deal."

She cuts a slice. The muscles in her arms stand out as she forces the knife through the blackened crust.

John takes a bite. He spits it out at once. Snowy takes a sniff and runs yelping from the room.

It is consigned to the bin.

PARTY

In the evening Jerold and Alys come over carrying a present for John: a magnum of champagne. This is also a tight present. Alys has brought a boombox and some cds.

"All right! Let's get this party started!" she yells. "Open the champagne!"

"Uh - you do realise I'm not twenty-one?"

"Who's counting? Let's pop this sucka!"

"I'll leave you kids to it," Sarah Connor announces.

"No, don't go, Sarah!" Jerold pleads. "At least wait until we've opened the champagne."

"Yeah, mom, have a glass to celebrate," John agrees.

"Just the one."

"And one dance," Jerold adds.

"One dance. And no Puke Attack."

"Promise," Jerold winks. "Puke Attack are over. They sold out. Went corporate. They actually _learned_ to play their instruments. Can't get more corporate than that."

Alys seeks me out and smiles nervously. "Hey."

"Hey."

"About yesterday. I was way out of line. It was the booze and maybe a small part of me missed Rosalie more than I realised. No excuses, I shouldn't have done what I did. I was a freaking idiot. Can you forgive me?"

"Yes."

"And we'll still be friends? Just friends. I'm totally cool with that."

"Friends. Cool with that."

We hug. She doesn't try to feel me up. Progress.

Song follows song. The champagne is consumed and toasts drunk to John's health. Alys falls asleep on the sofa at midnight, while Jerold attempts to demonstrate his breakdancing skills to Sarah Connor, a process that involves him spinning on his back like an upturned turtle.

I find John in the kitchen. The alcohol has made him merry. And talkative.

"Best birthday ever!" he repeats several times in a slurring voice. "We should do it all over again."

"Yes, in a year's time."

"No! We should celebrate your birthday next."

"My built day," I correct.

"No! You should have a proper birthday. The Queen of England has two birthdays, her actual one and an official one for ceromonies and shit. You can have an official birthday too. Pick a date."

"Today."

"No! Today's my birthday."

"Jerold and Alys share a birthday."

"Because they're twins. Pick again."

"Tomorrow."

"No! Too soon. I want to buy you a present as great as the one you got me. I want to buy you the world!"

"That will be expensive. Unless you have a coupon?"

"November nine! That's your birthday. We'll party and-oh!"

"What?"

"The room's spinning."

I consult my sensors. They register no gravitational anomaly. John is insistent.

"It's spinning. I -"

His eyes roll back in his head and he collapses. I catch him before he hits the floor. I check his vitals. Normal. Evidently the alcohol is to blame.

I carry him up to his room and lay him on the bed, kissing him gently on the lips.

"Happy birthday, John."

BED PARTNERS

When I return from night patrol at 8.00AM Alys is no longer on the sofa while John is still sleeping in his room.

Snowy is asleep on the bed in my room. He is lying on his back with all four paws in the air, tongue lolling from his mouth. This unusual posture is explained by the alcohol he drank earlier in the evening when Alys filled his water bowl with champagne. He enjoyed the champagne very much, an opinion he may revise when he wakes up with a sore head.

Sarah Connor's bedroom door is ajar. Odd. She normally keeps it firmly shut so that Snowy can't sleep on her clothes and cover them with doghair. I decide to snoop.

Two figures are side by side in bed, asleep. The figure on the left of the bed stirs, the sheet falling away to reveal the familiar tousled black hair of Jerold Ramirez. He blinks dozily up at me and asks, "Cam? What are you doing in my room?"

"This isn't your room."

"Hey, you're right! Ouch, and why does my head hurt so bad?"

On the other side of the bed Sarah Connor sits up, blinking owlishly. "Jerold?" she says, surprised.

"Sarah? Omigod - you're naked!"

"So are you."

"And we're in bed together. We must have..."

"No. No way. There must be another explanation."

"The last thing I remember is standing on the kitchen table demonstrating the perfect hang ten. Then falling off. That must be why my head hurts."

"Mine too. We drank too much champagne."

"Omigod - suppose we didn't use protection? You're pregnant! Sarah, I will be totally supportive of our baby. Can I name it? If it's a girl, Leia. Obviously. If it's a boy, Boba Fett."

"Are you insane?"

"Hey, it's not like I want to call him Grand Moff Tarkin. Although that is a really cool name."

"I'm not pregnant, you idiot. Nothing happened."

"Man, I bagged a cougar. I can't wait to tell Alys and the guys at the beach and- _Ulp!"_

Sarah Connor grabs Jerold in a headlock. His face turns purple.

"Listen, you little maggot. Nothing. Happened. You don't breathe a word of this to your sister, your surfer buds, or my son. Especially my son. Understand?"

_"...can't breath...sarah...can't breath..."_

"Understand?"

_"...yes...please...need oxygen..."_

She releases him. He sucks in lungfuls of air. "Man, you're cranky after sex!"

"Get out."

"Er - I can't find my clothes."

"GET OUT!"

Jerold presses a pillow to his groin and hurries from the room.

Sarah Connor notices me standing at the end of the bed. "And you. You say nothing to John, understand?"

"Mum's the word," I assure her. "Oh. Did you hear that? I made another joke. Mum's the word and you are John's m-"

She groans and flings the remaining pillow at me, striking me in the face.

Some people have no sense of humour.

**-000-**


	31. Chapter thirtyone

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MONDAY

I place my new school books in my new locker and turn around in the corridor of my new school on my very first day back. Students pass me by in both directions, some loitering to chat about summer vacations and the new school year. The concensus seems to be that the summer break was too short and over too soon and that the new school year blows. I am the new girl and no one seems to want to know me. Sweet.

First period: teacher, Mr Rourke, strides between the desks and enjoys esticulating with his hands as he lectures.

"The root of an equation is a number which substituted into the equation instead of an unknown converts the equation into an identity. The root therefore satisfies the equation. Solving an equation implies finding the roots. An equation thus satisfied, no matter the value of its unknowns, is called an identity. Who can give me an example?"

I do so.

"Yes, that's a particularly fine example. Your name is?"

"Cameron."

A sympathetic smile. "Isn't that a boy's name?"

"I get that a lot." I smile ruefully. It is that or terminate him for his impertinence. Extreme for a first day. And I am in a forgiving mood. Plus it would probably end up on my Permanent Record.

"Well done, Cameron. Keep it up."

Keep what up, I wonder? My pecker? My dander? My cholesterol level? No, presumably he means my intelligence quotient. No problemo. It's hard-wired.

LUNCH

I take lunch in the canteen, sitting alone at a table with a taco I have purchased but will not consume since I bought it merely for appearances sake. And appearances are very important in high school, as I have learnt from prior experience.

The room is very similar to the canteen at my previous High School. There even similar _cliques_, including a version of the Queen Bees: three skinny blonde girls who sit aloof from the common herd, sipping mineral water and consuming nothing more calorific than air. There is even a girl who reminds me of Becca Shaughnessy. She's wearing a baggy hoody to disguise her body shape and has a curtain of long dark hair hanging in front of her face blocking out the world around her, no doubt deliberately. She sits alone and reads a book, friendless. I wonder if she too has self-esteem issues. It seems to be very common among girls of a certain type.

The bell rings signalling the end of lunch period. Everyone rises and heads to class. I dump my taco in the trash, uneaten. No one notices. No one cares. Excellent.

SOCCER

I am outdoors with a large group of girls. We are all dressed alike in tees, shorts and trainers.

Coach Gruber inspects us. He is a small man with spindly legs, no hair on his head and a whistle between his lips. He blows it three times in quick succession, a shrill piercing sound that makes several girls wince. I get the impression he enjoys doing this, that it bestows an authority his puny stature otherwise denies him.

"Okay, welcome to soccer practice. I know we have some new girls this semester. Hands up if you're new."

Three hands are raised, including mine.

"Names?"

"Juanita."

"Jessica."

"Cameron."

"Okay, lower your hands if you've played soccer before."

Two hands are lowered. Mine remains aloft.

"You've never played soccer before?"

I confirm this to be the case.

"Okay, you're in goal."

"What is goal?" I ask.

"You shitting me, girl?"

I deny shitting him. Couldn't if I tried.

"Go and stand between those two posts. You stop the ball going in the net with your hands or feet. Got it? Oh and you'll need gloves."

He hands me a thick pair of gloves. I query why I require gloves when it is a hot, sunny day.

"It's to protect your dainty little fingers and your pretty little nails, wouldn't want to chip those," he smirks. I sense he is being patronising because I am a girl. Ha! My dainty fingers can bend steel. Or part his head from his scrawny neck.

Goal is two upright posts and a horizontal crossbar backed by a net. Twenty-two girls and Coach Gruber stand on a large patch of grass criss-crossed by seemingly arbitrary chalk lines. This is called a soccer pitch. We are two teams of eleven players. Coach Gruber blows his whistle and the game begins.

My side appears to be superior and it is ten minutes before the ball approaches my goal. One of the opposing players sprints forward, ball at her feet. She takes aim and kicks.

_You stop the ball going in the net with your hands or feet..._

My targeting graphics suggest the ball is bound for the top right corner unless I do something to prevent it. I leap in that direction and catch it.

"Nice save, newbie!" Coach Gruber barks, panting slightly as he struggles to keep up with play. He is short of breath as well as hair.

I stand with the ball in my hands. Is that it? Game over? It seems anticlimatic.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Coach Gruber again. "Release it, girl!"

I drop the ball.

"Not like that! Kick it upfield. Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

Are Jesus, Mary and Joseph on my team? I am not sure. I kick the ball upfield as instructed. I hope it doesn't hit Jesus on the head. He has enough troubles.

Another four times I am called upon to make saves and do so. It is not difficult this soccer. At half-time my side lead 2-0. This is good apparently. We congregate in the center circle to rehydrate by drinking from water bottles.

"Some nice moves out there," a tall latino girl tells me. I recognise her as the scorer of our side's two goals. "But you need to improve your distribution. When you have the ball look for me. I'm the striker. I'll be in the top third of the pitch. Throw it to me and I'll do the rest."

I decide to follow her advice. Each time I have the ball I throw it to her. She steers the ball past the remaining defenders and scores.

My team wins 7-0.

The tall latino girl seeks me out in the changing room. "Nice going, Moves," she grins showing perfect white teeth. "We thrashed them bigtime. I'm Ramona, by the way."

"Cameron."

She shakes her head. "No, I think I'm gonna call you Moves. It suits you. You did good today, Moves. I'm gonna ask Coach Gruber to put you in the team. We need a decent goalie."

Moves? It appears I have a new nickname. I think I prefer it to freakshow. Or weirdo.

HOME

Snowy is very impressed by my new nickname and demands one of his own.

"What d'you suggest?" I ask. He sits and thinks, his little white tail wagging brisky as his equally tiny doggie brain cogitates.

_"Woof, woof, WOOF!"_

"Ninja Paws? You wish that to be your nickname?"

A firm nod of the head.

"No, I don't think so. You do not get to give yourself a nickname. Someone else must do it for you. That is how it works. Me, for example."

_"Woof?"_

"No, not Ninja Paws. I will call you...Busy Tail. Do you like it?"

Snowy does not like it. Not one bit. He refuses to come when I call him Busy Tail. Instead he pesters John who is watching TV, trying to persuade him Ninja Paws is a good nickname to bestow. But he has forgotten John doesn't speak Dog.

"Quit barking, Snowy! I'm trying to watch TV."

John lobs a sofa cushion to shut him up. Snowy yelps and runs upstairs, where I later find him hiding under the bed.

Ninja Paws, indeed.

TUESDAY

First period: English. We are assigned a set book: _The Great Gatsby _by F. Scott Fitzgerald.

I do not bother to open my copy since I already have it downloaded to my HD. I have many books cached in this manner including -_ The Complete Works of Shakespeare, Anna Karenina, War and Peace, The Art of War, The Illiad _and _Calvin & Hobbes Scientific Progress Goes Boink_. All the Classics. John says I am a walking library. This is a compliment. I think.

LUNCH

I enter the canteen, buy a taco and scan for an empty table where I can sit and not eat it.

"Hey, Moves, over here!"

I glance to my right. Ramona, the latino girl from soccer practice, is waving me over to join her.

"Come and sit with us, Moves."

She pats the chair next to her. Two girls opposite smile in greeting as I sit down.

"You know Wanda from soccer. This is Patty. She's not on the team."

"No, I'm a total klutz at sport!" the girl named Patty laughs, stroking her long brown hair. "I am on the swim squad though. Are you going to try out for swimming?"

Unlikely. Unless there is also a tryout for sinking to the bottom of the pool and remaining there.

"What's your story, Moves?" Ramona asks. "C'mon, spill. We're all girls here."

Not quite but I get the gist.

Sarah Connor and I have prepared a backstory for just this occasion. I recite it now: only child, single mom, moved here from West LA for work, no bf - yet.

"Only child, huh. You're lucky," says Ramona. "I've got five sisters and we all share the same room. Can you imagine? Sardines have it better."

"I've got a brother," Wanda says. She is a pretty black girl with braided hair who plays midfield at soccer. "He's only three months so he's more like a pet really. A pet who poops and sleeps a lot!"

Wanda's rich, btw."

"Am not!"

"Please. Your father drives a Lexus."

"Yeah, a_ secondhand _Lexus. It's not like we have maids or a swimming pool."

"We have a swimming pool," Patty says. "A small one not much bigger than these tables. Nice in the hot weather though."

The girl who reminds me of Becca Shaughnessy passes our table, carrying a tray laden with cheeseburger, fries and a milkshake. She sits at a table by herself, cocooned from the world by the music playing through the white earbuds of her iPod. I point her out and ask who she is.

"Eleanor Ryan," Ramona replies. "We call her Mad Ellie. She's into vampires and shit."

Vampires. And shit. It seems an odd combination.

"See the iPod she's listening to?" Ramona continues. "Nothing on it but dead rockstars. Kurt Cobain, Nick Drake, Jeff Buckley - all those dead dudes."

"It's like they're singing to her - _from beyond the grave!" _Wanda shudders.

Patty says, "I heard she collects voodoo dolls and drinks her own urine."

"_Eww!_ Why would she do that?" asks Ramona.

"Because she's Mad Ellie. And I hear it's supposed to be good for the skin."

"No way. I don't care if it made me glow like Beyonce, no way am I drinking my own pee-pee," Ramona declares with a grimace.

"How about someone else's pee-pee?" I inquire.

"Oh gross, Moves!"

They giggle in disgust. The girl named Mad Ellie doesn't look up from her meal. She spears her milkshake carton with a straw and drinks.

_At least I assume it's a milkshake..._

"You're from West LA, Moves?" Ramona asks.

"Yes."

"Lot of actors and celebrities live there. Ever see anyone famous?"

"I saw an American Gladiator at the Farmer's Market." This is true. John pointed him out to me long ago . He didn't look much like a gladiator: no sword.

"No one else? No R:Patz or K:Stew?"

"No."

Wanda says, "I was in a nightclub one time and someone said Lindsay Lohan had barfed outside. So I went and took a picture."

"Of vomit?"

"Celebrity vomit."

"How is it different from the regular kind?"

"Well, a celebrity barfed it._ Duh_!"

"Wonder why Linds upchucked."

"It's probably an occupational hazard if you're Lindsay Lohan. Wake up _barf_. Eat breakfast _barf._ Go shopping _barf_. All the livelong day._"_

Patty leans forward and whispers, "Don't look now but Pablo's looking in our direction!"

Oh God! How are my spots?"

"Visible from orbit."

"You bitch!"

"Shush, here he comes!"

A tall muscular latino boy arrives at the table, standing looking down at us, at me in particular. He's wearing a sleeveless white tanktop and has what appear to be coloured drawings on his arms. He has dark hair and dark brown eyes and a pleasing symmetry of facial features which the majority of human females would find attractive. In short, he is a hottie.

"Hey, ladies..."

"Pablo," they chorus shyly.

"Who's your friend? Not seen her around before."

"She's new," Ramona explains. "Her name's Cameron but we call her Moves 'cause she's good at soccer."

"You like outdoor sport, huh? That's cool. Me, I'm more of an indoor sports man - know what I mean?" he winks.

I do know what he means. Pool and table tennis are indoor sports. I rock at pool but have never played table tennis. It's unlikely the table would bear my weight.

"I thought you were suspended, Pablo?" says Ramona.

"That was last term, babe. Can't keep me away this term. It's the law."

Pablo is hailed by some boys at another table. He grins and says, "Be seeing you, ladies. Especially you...Moves." Another wink. Possibly his eye is malfunctioning.

Once he has left the girls go into a huddle, whispering conspiratorially so their voices seem to blend together, one indistinguishable from another.

_"God, he's so hot!"_

_"Did you see his tats? I think he's had more done."_

_"They're all up his arms!"_

_"D'you think they're gang tats?"_

_"Gotta be."_

_"Wow, he's in a gang."_

_"I heard he carries a gun outside school."_

_"I heard he stole a car."_

_"I heard he held up a liquor store."_

_"Man, I love bad boys."_

_"Join the queue."_

_"I am the queue, sweetie."_

_"He really seemed to like Moves."_

I say, "Me?"

"Yeah, Moves, he was totally into you."

"God, Pablo and Moves! Listen, if you hook up you've got to promise to tell us all the details - even the sordid ones."

"Especially the sordid ones!"

They laugh.

"What are tats?" I ask.

"Tattoos. Didn't you see his arms?"

"I've got a tattoo," Patty adds proudly. "A small star just above my hoo-hoo. Megan Fox has one in the same place. It hurt like crazy and was so sore I couldn't wax for ages. I looked like Chewbacca!"

More laughter. I don't join in. How is chewing tobacco funny? And what is a hoo-hoo? Do I have a hoo-hoo? If so, where? I will check with John later.

The chatter continues. Despite being in High School, a place of knowledge and learning, there is still much I don't understand. And none of the answers I require exist in books or classrooms. What are tats? Where is a hoo-hoo? Who or what are R:Patz and K:Stew? I wish there was a class called:

HUMANS 101

But there isn't. I will just have to piece it together as I go along. There is so much more to being human than simply looking the part.

WEDNESDAY

Today is the day.

Today is the day that John returns to school.

To mark the occasion I am making some improvements to my look by standing in the bathtub and shaving my legs. It is strange how American females on the brink of womanhood choose to resemble their earlier, pre-pubescent selves. Unfortunately the hair follicles embedded in my pseudo-flesh cannot be deactivated so I must resort to using sharp blades, foam and water. It is both tedious and messy.

Snowy appears in the doorway watching me with curiosity. He comes no closer. He is not fond of sharp blades. Or soap.

"How do I look?" I ask, rinsing off the suds and stepping out of the tub.

Snowy merely stares at me then leaves without offering an opinion.

Tough audience.

I also take the opportunity to update my drivers and run a full diagnostic on all systems. Occasionally I suffer from unwelcome glitches that cause me to crush or break things. Kissing often leads to petting, the fondling of external bodyparts. I would not like to suffer a glitch while petting one of John's bodyparts and have it break off in my hands. No, that wouldn't be very romantic at all. And suppose it didn't fit back on? Humans are not plug and play, unfortunately.

To compliment my look I choose my wardrobe carefully. I select my favourite crop-top and fingerless mittens, teamed with a faded denim skirt and black sandals, the only pair Snowy hasn't chewed to shreds.

I peer downwards at my feet and activate the tiny servo motors in my toes. They wriggle in a pleasingly realistic manner. If you can fake toes you can fake anything.

SCHOOL

_And there he is..._

Standing by his newly assigned locker, just as in New Mexico. Only this John is older, wiser, more experienced, broader in the shoulders, and with shorter hair.

"Hi, you're new, aren't you?"

He turns, smiles. "Yeah, first day."

"My name's Cameron."

"I'm John."

"Hi, John. Shall we kiss now?"

John frowns and whispers, "Cool it. We're supposed to be strangers, remember."

"My father sells tractors," I declare, unabashed.

"Yeah?"

"Would you like to buy one?"

"Uh - no thanks."

"I can get you a good deal. Twenty percent off."

"No."

"You're probably right. The mileage is poor and you would be overtaken frequently on the Interstate." I pause then add, "Shall we kiss now?"

John doesn't reply. He is peering past me over my shoulder. I turn to see Ramona approaching.

"Everything okay, Moves? This jerk not hassling you, is he?"

"His name is John," I explain. "He's new. We just met. I'm his girlfriend."

"You just met and you're already hooked up? Slick work, Moves. Okay, I guess I'll catch up with you later."

"Who was that?" John asks.

"Ramona. She is my new friend. And the center forward on my soccer team."

"You're on the soccer team?"

"I'm the goalie."

"Why did she call you Moves?"

"It's my new nickname. Do you like it?

"I guess so."

"Me too. So, John, do have a car?" I continue our charade.

"Yeah. A Porsche."

"Sweet. Did you buy it yourself?"

There's a trace of a smile on John's lips. "No, it was a gift."

"A Porsche is a tight present."

"Yeah, it is."

"Who was it from?"

"From someone very special to me. Someone so special I should really tell her that more often."

I find I am at a loss for words.

"Shall we kiss now?" John grins.

The bell rings ending recess.

_Damn._

LUNCH

John is nowhere to be seen when I enter the canteen so I reluctantly take my place at Ramona's table. She, Wanda and Patty smile in greeting as I sit down with the taco I have purchased but have no intention of eating.

"Hey, Moves. Where's your new bf?" Ramona asks with a smirk.

"Moves has a bf - already?"

The three girls form a tight huddle like before, their voices again becoming hard to separate.

"_She hooked up with this new kid, John."_

_"That's so romantic!"_

_"Or slutty."_

_"Shush, she'll hear you."_

_"Is he cute?"_

_"Majorly cute."_

_"John? I think he was in my math class."_

_"Points on the hottie scale?"_

_"Oh, a definite four and a half."_

_"Out of five?"_

_"Absolutely."_

_"Shit, why can't I land a boy like that?"_

_"Maybe your standards are too high?"_

_"I doubt it. I'm easier than ABC."_

_"Skank!"_

_"Oh like you can talk."_

_"Pablo's not gonna like it."_

_"God, I forgot Pablo digs Moves."_

_"What d'you think he'll do when he finds out?"_

_"Nothing good."_

_"Has anyone told this John what he's in for?"_

_"Hey - there he is! Over here, John!"_

John appears in the doorway. Ramona waves him over. He sits down next to me.

"Where were you?" I ask.

"Principal had me filling in registration forms. Seems mom left a few details out."

"Tough first day?" Ramona commiserates.

"I've had worse."

"So, what's your story, John?"

John has also prepared a backstory: only child, moved to LA from New Mexico after his parents divorced, mom got custody.

"New Mexico, huh? I hear it gets plenty hot down there."

"Hot enough to fry eggs on the sidewalk."

"Oh you can do that in LA."

"At night?"

"Oh man, that's hot!"

I notice he has no food with him. "Would you like to eat my taco?" I ask.

Ramona, Wanda and Patty dissolve into giggles. Odd. Since when is asking a boy if he'd like to eat a girl's taco funny?

"Actually, I'd love to." More giggles. "I'm starved. Haven't eaten all day."

I hand it over. John unwraps the greasy paper and takes a bite.

"Hmm, thanks. It's deli-"

He suddenly jerks forward as if someone has barged into the back of him. Someone has.

_Pablo._

"Hey, man, watch where you're going!"

"You talking to me?" Pablo asks, his dark eyes radiating menace.

"Yeah, I'm talking to you." John rises to his feet. They are nose to nose. Pablo is more muscular but John is cuter. Naturally.

"Okay, you're the new white boy. I get it. You don't know how things work around here," Pablo says with a mirthless smile. "So I'm gonna give you a chance to walk away before I humiliate you in front of these lovely _senoritas_. Are you. Talking. To me?"

"Hey hey, what's going on here? Break it up, you two."

Mr Gross, the history teacher, intervenes by pushing the two boys apart. Mr Gross is a tubby man with thinning hair and a seemingly permanent sheen of sweat on his forehead and upper lip. He has two nicknames bestowed on him by the students. Grossy Gross-Out and the Big Goober. I wonder if he likes these nicknames? Unlikely. They are not very nice. And Gross is not a nice name to begin with.

"Starting trouble again, Sanchez?"

"Why d'you assume I started it? Because I'm latino?"

"No, because you're a born troublemaker. You've had two suspensions. You trying for a third?"

"Maybe. Maybe not."

"You mouthing me, boy?"

"I don't think anyone wants to mouth you - sir."

"Sit down! Enough of your smart remarks or I'll have you both in detention."

"Who was that jerk?" John asks, resuming his seat.

"That's Pablo. Major badass."

"What's his problem?"

"He kinda thought he had first dibs on Cameron."

"John has first dibs on me," I tell her. "And second dibs," I add.

"Guess no one told Pablo."

BIOLOGY

Next period: biology. The teacher's name is Mr Wiener. He doesn't have nicknames since the name Wiener is considered sufficiently ludicrous. The students pronounce it_ Weeeeee-ner_.

We are expected to dissect a frog and detail its organs and inner workings. The frogs are already dead and do not require terminating. Bummer.

Several girls feel queasy at the prospect. One girl refuses pointblank to participate, declaring she is a vegetarian. She incurs a failing grade. Odd. No one expects her to eat the frog. She has just had lunch after all and is probably full.

Mr Wiener comes over to inspect my work.

"Hmm, an excellent job. Your incisions are almost surgically precise. And you've correctly categorised the various internal organs. Have you done this before?"

"Not on frogs."

"You've dissected other things?"

"I am not without experience in this field."

"Well, I think you deserve top marks."

I don't tell him I once extracted a man's heart through his ribcage using my bare hands. He was still alive at the time.

It might adversely affect my grade.

PARKING LOT

John and I meet up at the end of the school day. We hold hands heading for the parking lot since word has spread that we are now an item. Holding hands is permitted if you are an item.

John slows to a stop as we move through the rows of vehicles. "Shit, I had a feeling this would happen."

Ahead of us, leaning with fake nonchalance against John's Porsche, is Pablo.

"I will deal with him," I say.

"No. He's my problem now. Whatever happens, you stay out of it. Watch for teachers. Mom'll freak if I get suspended my first day."

"Suppose you are harmed?"

"I'll be fine." He steps forward. "Hey, man, that's my wheels you're leaning on."

"Nice," Pablo says. "Buy it with your trust fund?"

"No trust fund. It was a gift. Mind moving?"

"You pronounce it Porsche or Por-_sche_?"

"I think it's Porsche."

"German. Build good shit, germans. Tough. Like a tank"

Pablo thrusts the heel of his right boot backwards. A large dent appears in the door panel.

John sighs. "Oh man, you really shouldn't have done that."

A small crowd has gathered, faces curious, expectant, hopeful of witnessing a confrontation, a fight, the spilling of someone else's blood for entertainment. A typically human response. I spot Eleanor Ryan, Mad Ellie, her mouth a round O of surprise as she stops to watch.

Pablo is the taller and heavier. By his stance he has been taught the rudiments of boxing. But he has not been taught by Sarah Connor, drilled from infancy to fulfil a destiny that is beyond his wildest imaginings.

"Don't do this, man," John warns.

"You mean this?"

Pablo surges forward, throwing two punches, the full weight of his wiry, tattoo inscribed body behind them. John nimbly steps inside so they miss, delivers two jabs of his own to the pressure points, winding his opponent, hurting him.

"Well well, the rich boy's has _cojones_." Breathing heavily yet still believing he is in control. A fallacy.

"We can still walk away, man. No harm no foul."

Another charge. Another lightening riposte that brings a gasp of pain from the aggressor.

"Walk away, Pablo. Please."

Pablo circles. He reaches behind into his jeans pocket and produces something that glints in the late afternoon sun.

"John, he has a knife!" I warn.

"Stay back!"

My yelling distracts John and the blade slices through the front of his shirt, mercifully not drawing blood. Possibly it is this narrow escape from serious injury, or possibly the increasing likelihood of a teacher intervening, that spurs John to end it quickly. As Pablo charges in John lands a hard punch to the stomach and as he folds over in pain, a clubbing blow to the back of the neck.

Pablo tries to rise from the ground . His eyes are glassy and his brain seemingly unable to process simple cognitive instructions to his limbs. He flops over onto his back.

"Someone help him," John barks.

Two latino boys step out of the crowd and help Pablo to his feet, escorting him away.

It is over.

HOME

Sarah Connor enquires about John's first day at school during dinner.

"Oh you know, mom, same old same old."

"No problems?"

"Nothing I couldn't handle. I had to fill in some extra forms. No big deal."

Later, when we are alone, I ask, "Why didn't you tell her about Pablo?"

"Want to know why? Because when I was seven years old I met a kid just like Pablo and made the mistake of telling her about it. I spent the next six hours doing unarmed combat drills against my mom. That's why."

"But you don't need drills anymore. You cleaned his cock."

"Clock. The expression is, cleaned his_ clock_. You've gotta start getting these expressions right, it's embarrassing."

"I'm sorry for embarrassing you."

"And it's not over."

"My embarrassing you?"

"Pablo. He'll come looking for revenge, to save face or to get his badass rep back. I know his type."

"I will terminate him the moment he shows up."

"No. You won't. He's my problem and I'll deal with him as and when."

"As and when. That expression reminds me of Hugo."

"Do I know a Hugo?"

"No, but you will. In the future Hugo is the leader of the Mexico militia. He is disloyal and questions your leadership. You tell your generals you deal with him as and when. I am present at his Court Martial. And execution."

"I have him _executed?"_

"His insubordination almost causes the Mexican Front to collapse, threatening the Resistance's entire southern flank. You have no choice."

"There's always a choice where a man's life is at stake."

"And you make the correct choice, the one expected of you."

"Sometimes it's a braver, better choice to do what's not expected of you. And it kinda bums me out to hear you talk like this."

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to bum you out."

It's true. I didn't but have nonetheless. John broods all evening, barely registering the TV shows he watches. Even Snowy notices something amiss.

_"Woof?"_

"It is my fault. I bummed John out."

_"Woof?"_

"No, it didn't involve kibbles."

Foolish dog always thinking of his stomach.

THURSDAY

John and I are kissing. This is actually happening. My butt is pressed against the steel lockers and his lips are pressed against mine. Word has spread that the fight yesterday was over me so John has decided it is appropriate for him to be seen claiming his prize. Do I mind being described as a prize? Me, an advanced cyborg from the future reduced to the status of a mere chattal boys fight over? I decide I don't care. Anything for some lip action.

"Get a room!" Ramona grins as she deposits books in her locker.

"The corridor will suffice," I tell her.

"Not if the Principal catches you. You'll be for the high jump then."

High jump? Curious. I thought track and field tryouts were next week.

"Pablo's not in school today," Ramona continues. "No one's seen him. Thought you might wanna know."

John breaks our lip connection. "How come?"

"You whupped him pretty bad, Jaydog!"

Jaydog? Is this John's nickname? Snowy will be very jealous. He will probably demand to be called Essdog.

"He didn't leave me very much choice."

"Oh I know. I was there. I ain't blaming you none."

"You know this school, Ramona. Should I watch my back?"

"Hmm. I'd keep an eye on Raymond and Diego, I was you. They're pretty tight with Pablo."

"Okay. Thanks for the heads up."

"Hey, you didn't hear it from me. I'm latino myself. I can't be siding with no white boy." She winks. "Big game Friday, Moves. Your mom coming?"

"No." The likelihood of Sarah Connor wanting to watch me catch a ball is minimal.

"Too bad. All my folks will be there. Even my grandparents. They come to every game. They really want me to get that soccer scholership to USC. If it happens I'll be the first person in my family to go to university." She smiles shyly. "It's kind of a big deal."

"Maybe I'll come and watch the game," John says. "It's my school now after all."

"Great! We play in all white, like Real Madrid. If you want to bring a scarf or something."

"Duly noted."

Ramona hurries off to class. John says, "I like her."

"Better than me?"

"Not that way. I act like going back to school is a huge waste of time, but forget that for someone like her education really matters. It's a chance to improve her life."

"Until the bombs drop."

"_If_ the bombs drop."

SCIENCE

First period: science. There is only one spare seat. The teacher, Miss Womack, a large friendly black woman, guides me to it.

"There, Eleanor," she tells the table's sole occupant. "Company for you. A new girl. Try not to bite this one, dear. Remember, there's no such thing as vampires."

I sit down next to Eleanor Ryan. Mad Ellie. Into vampires. And shit. I hope she hasn't brought any with her.

The assignment is 20 Questions on the Periodic Table.

_Q1. What is the most common element?_

I write: hydrogen.

_Q2. Which is the rarest element?_

I write: astatine.

I complete all 20 questions in five minutes. This is called kicking science ass. It was a piece of cake. Or do I mean biscuit? Yes, I believe I do. A piece of biscuit. It is important to get these expressions right or I could seem foolish.

I glance across at Eleanor Ryan. She is doodling on a notepad. Small intricate drawings of skulls, a crucifix, knives, sharp fangs dripping blood, a face contorted in pain...

"Do you require assistance?" I ask.

Silence. Then: "You're that girl."

"What girl?"

"The girl those boys were fighting over yesterday."

I tell her she is correct.

"That was freaking cool! Boys fighting over you. They don't do that for me. They never even notice me."

"It wasn't John's fault. He was provoked."

"I did show Michael Carver a boob one time," she continues in a soft whisper. "That's him there." She indicates a boy with short brown hair seated a few rows ahead.

"Why did you do that?"

"He asked me."

"And you do what boys ask?"

"It's how you get them to like you."

"It's how you get hurt."

"He wanted to take a picture with his camera phone but I said no. I'm not stupid. I know it would just end up on the web for people to laugh at. That's what they do, laugh at me, call me names."

"Mad Ellie?"

"Yeah..."

"At my last school I was called weirdo, freakshow and poindexter."

"Poindexter's not so bad. It means you're smart. I wish I was smart. Mom says if my grades don't improve I'm gonna be home tutored."

The sleeve of her hoodie has ridden up. I see tiny red scars, vertical lines against her pale skin. Wounds that have recently healed. I have seen their like before on Louise Vandervelt. Eleanor Ryan is a self-harmer.

"Why d'you cut yourself?" I ask, tugging at her sleeve to expose more scars.

"Don't!" she squeals, hastily covering up."If people see I'll get in trouble again."

"Then why do it?"

A shrug. "Punishment."

"For what?"

"Being me."

It seems a curious crime. And one that never ends. I indicate her iPod on the desk.

"Do you listen to dead rockstars?"

"Huh?"

I explain Wanda's theory.

"From beyond the grave? No! I listen to Marilyn Manson. He's alive."

He? I let it pass.

"Do you listen to music?" she asks.

"I listen to white noise."

"Don't know them. Any good?"

"It's an acquired taste."

I take her assignment, fill in the answers and hand it back.

"Why did you do that?"

"I wanted to."

"I never asked you."

"But I wanted to."

"It's kinda rude but...okay...uh...thanks."

"You're welcome."

FALSE ALARM

John and I head for the parking lot at the end of the school day. This time he has his arm around my waist, an improvement on holding hands.

As we approach the lot I sense John tensing up. Pablo is still on his mind and he still believes the latino boy will retaliate for the events of the previous day.

But there is no Pablo to be seen. No black Trans-Am with its distinctive rusty door panels. No ambush today at least.

John plips the alarm on the Porsche and we get inside. I am about to close the door when I hear the sound of a single gunshot.

I take the pistol from its concealed hiding place and stand up, scanning the lot for the source.

"Cam, it was a backfire," John says. "Sit down before someone sees the gun."

Yes. There. A vintage VW Bug, cylinders misfiring and trailing smoke and oil as it labours out of the lot. A false alarm. At least no one saw my reaction.

Correction, someone did.

_Eleanor Ryan._

She stares at me with wild eyes, registers me noticing her and hastily lowers her gaze to the ground. She hurries away clutching her schools books to her chest.

She saw me with an illegal firearm. A criminal act. A felony. If she reports what she saw it will bring the police to us. She needs to be dealt with. She requires terminating.

"Cameron, get back in the car," John orders. "You know how mom gets if we're late."

I sit back down. Eleanor Ryan is gone. She has eluded me.

For now.

SEEK  
There are seven Ryans listed in the telephone directory for our high school district. I dial the first of them: A T Ryan.

_"Hello?"_

"Eleanor Ryan"

_"Never heard of her."_

I hang up.

I dial the number for C V Ryan.

_"Yeah?"_

"Eleanor Ryan."

_"No one here by that name."_

I hang up.

I dial the number for E G Ryan.

_"Yes?"_

"Eleanor Ryan."

_"No, my name is Elizabeth. Who is-"_

I hang up.

I dial the number for T R Ryan.

_"Hello?"_

"Eleanor Ryan."

_"She's in her room. What's she done now? Has she bitten someone again?"_

I hang up and make a note of the address.

14 Oakmont Street

I have acquired my target.

ACQUISITION

Oakmont Street is situated well inland from the ocean with its houses backing onto a golf course. It is a prosperous residential street where John's Porsche easily blends in even at this time of night.

Number 14 is a large house on a corner plot. It has a double garage and a white picket fence. I slip quietly around the back of the house unnoticed by anyone.

A kidney-shaped swimming pool confronts me, illuminated by underwater lights. I step back into the shadows and wait to see if anyone is presently using the pool. Eleanor, for instance. It would make my task simpler.

After five minutes no one comes.

After ten minutes I move out of the shadows and begin to climb the rear wall of the house, heading for the single lit room on the second floor with its window wide open to the humid night air.

Inside the room is Eleanor. Mad Ellie. She is seated with her back to me working at a laptop computer, its bright screen the only source of light in the room. I slip over the sill and place my hand over her mouth. I feel her stiffen in surprise. "This is Cameron, the girl from school," I tell her. "Scream and I snap your neck and kill everyone here. Nod if you understand."

She does so. I release my grip. She swivels and stares at me, shock giving way to wary recognition.

"You're the girl from science. The girl with the..."

"Gun," I finish for her. "Who have you told?"

"No one. I swear. I mean, who's gonna listen to me? I'm Mad Ellie."

I concede this nickname could afford a credibilty gap.

"You're going to kill me, aren't you?"

This is exactly what I was planning to do. So why haven't I?

_Sometimes the braver, better choice is to do what's not expected of you..._

John's recent advice front and center in my HUD.

"I promise I won't tell."

I examine my surroundings more closely. This room is unlike any I have seen before. Becca Shaughnessy's bedroom had posters on the walls of actors and boybands. Alys Ramirez favours a managerie of stuffed toy animals and poignant family momentoes. This room is devoid of any of these details. It is decorated in hues of red and black. The shelves, desk and swivel chair are black while the carpet and bed coverlet are red. Correction: blood red. Even the pyjamas Eleanor is wearing are blood red. Her feet are bare and pale, toenails painted black like her fingernails. They look like tiny diseased maggots. It is not an attractive look and one I won't be emulating any time soon.

I examine the books on the shelves. Vampire lore. The supernatural. The Maquis de Sade. Books on domination and submission. No Calvin & Hobbes. Bummer. I like Calvin & Hobbes.

There is a white skull acting as a bookend. I pick it up. Fake. Some kind of resin. Embossed on the jawbone is the slogan:

MADE IN CHINA

Genuine skulls don't have this, not even Chinese ones.

Eleanor Ryan suddenly attacks me with a metal crucifix. I knock it out of her hands, causing it to fly across the room and embed itself in the wall.

She rubs her hand. "I was just checking to see if you were undead."

Undead? I suppose technically this is true. Personally I prefer the expression: unalive.

Eleanor attempts to pull the crucifix from the wall. It is embedded a good three inches deep. I pull it out for her.

"Do not try that again."

"How did you do that?"

"I have certain abilities."

I allow the red LEDs behind my pseudo-eyes to brighten momentarily, filling the room with a red glow.

Eleanor takes a step back, shocked. "You're different."

"Very different."

"Make me just like you. Bite my neck."

"It doesn't work that way."

"Please. I want to be special."

"Being human isn't special?"

She shakes her head emphatically. "I want to be powerful not a weak little girl. I want to smite my enemies."

"Smite?"

"Yeah. Rain some serious shit down on them."

Shit. One of her big interests.

"You're a strange girl."

"And with your help I'll be even stranger. If you won't turn me then let me be your slave."

"I don't require a slave."

"Disciple, then. Or underling. Apprentice. Whatever works for you."

I grasp her neck and lift her off the floor. "Tell anyone of my abilities and I will snap your spine with a flick of my wrist."

I release her. She stumbles slightly, falling to her knees. She looks up at me not with fear or loathing but something altogether unexpected.

Worship.

FRIDAY

John and I continue snogging by the lockers. Ramona makes her usual remark about getting a room. One day I must ask her what it means.

I have realised it is not enough to snog; you must be seen snogging by your peers, a visual demonstration that you are found attractive by the opposite sex. This is also how you acquire a reputation. My reputation is this: I am the girl who puts out. I am not sure what it is I put out - John is very coy on the subject - but this is my reputation. I am the girl who puts out.

Maybe I should add it to my resume.

SCIENCE

Eleanor Ryan is trouble from the get go. When I arrive in science class she bows her head and whispers obsequiously, "Welcome, mistress."

_Mistress?_

"I polished your seat clean for you."

"Why did you do that?"

"Do I displease you, mistress?"

"My name is Cameron or Cam, for short. Do not call me mistress again."

"Yes, mist-Cameron."

"What shall I call you - Eleanor or Ellie?"

"I am not worthy of a name."

I place my hand over hers on the desk and apply pressure. She winces as her bones are compressed but doesn't cry out.

"Eleanor or Ellie. Which?"

"Ellie."

I take my hand away. She gingerly raises hers to her face, examining it for damage. No bones are broken but it is slightly reddened.

"Thank you," she whispers.

"For what?"

"Punishing me. I was insolent. I deserved it."

I may have to revise my decision not to terminate her.

SOCCER

Today our soccer team plays its first home game of the season against Pacific Palisades High School. John is here to watch along with many parents and fellow students. And Snowy.

_"Woof!"_

I do not respond to Snowy's welcoming barks. John has noted it is unusal for someone to understand Dog and it is best not to in public. He has Snowy on a leash since the sight of a soccer ball being kicked about may tempt him into participating. Dogs aren't allowed on the soccer pitch. This is a rule. No one wants to tread in any doggie 'accidents'.

Ramona gathers us in the center circle for a team talk.

"Okay, last season we beat these bozos three-one. If we get at them down the flanks and put plenty of balls into the box we can do it again. Moves, watch out for their center-forward at corners. She's that tall blonde bitch. She likes to rabbit punch the keeper when the ref's not looking."

I agree to watch out for the tall blonde bitch and the game begins.

Ramona's prediction is correct. Pacific Palisades are a poor team and we lead 3-0 at the break. I have hardly had a save to make.

During the second half Pacific Palisades win a corner. The tall blonde bitch stands behind me and rabbit punches me in the kidneys - if I had any.

"That is against the rules," I tell her.

"Bite me."

"That is also against the rules."

She tries to punch me again but I grasp her wrists and squeeze.

"That hurts!" she wails and promptly bursts into tears.

She can dish it out but she can't take it.

The game ends in a convincing 5-0 victory for our side. I am credited with three assists.

Go team!

AMBUSH  
The ambush when it occurs is sudden, crude and effective.

We cross an otherwise deserted intersection on our way home when a vehicle T-bones the Porsche, impacting the front right fender. The engine stalls. I reach for the pistol hidden in the center console but John stays my hand.

"No, it's not them. It's Pablo. No guns."

Pablo emerges from his black Tran-Am, flanked by his two _compadres_, Diego and Raymond. Diego is short and tubby and has the beginnings of a goatee beard on his otherwise bland face. Raymond is taller and wears a wide belt of metal studs with black hair almost as long as my own. They are dressed alike in jeans and sleeveless white tees, tattoos decorating their arms.

John and I get out of the Porsche. John says, "I'm guessing you fellas don't want to exchange insurance details."

"Insurance!" Diego sneers. "White boy made a funny."

Pablo says, "You got lucky the first time. You didn't really think I was gonna let you get away with it?" He nods at me. "Shift, girl. Time to party later when we're done teaching the rich boy a lesson."

They advance. Diego ignores me entirely such is his desire to harm John. Probably he discounts me as a threat because I am a teenage girl. Big mistake. And possibly sexist. I should report him. After I have kicked his ass.

I aim a kick at his midriff. It is so large I can hardly miss even without targeting graphics appearing in my HUD. He slides across the tarmac on his ass until the far kerb halts his progress. He slumps backwards and doesn't get up.

DAMAGE ASSESSMENT

Likely broken ribs, possible spinal injuries, skin abrasions, internal organ damage.

THREAT LEVEL

Minimal.

John is defending himself well against the twin assault of Pablo and Raymond. I believe he could most likely handle them both so predictable are their tactics in trying to land punches to his head. Nevertheless there is no harm in making sure.

I seize Raymond by his studded belt and swing him around before releasing. He flies through the air like a rag doll and lands hard on his side against the unyielding tarmacadam. Like Diego he remains motionless.

DAMAGE ASSESSMENT

Possible cracked skull, broken bones, concussion.

THREAT LEVEL

Non existent.

Pablo notices he is alone. He stares at me in astonishment, breathing heavily while a trickle of blood runs down his chin.

"How'd she do that, man? She took out Diego and Raymond. Look at her, she's ninety pounds with arms like...like..."

"Toothpicks?" I suggest. It seems to be a common misconception.

"She works out. Pumps iron," John lies.

"And Pilates," I add for good measure.

Pablo retreats to his Trans-Am, slides through the open window and attempts to key the ignition. I lift the vehicle up and tip it on its side. Pablo curses in Spanish as he tumbles out of his seat and into the footwell. I tip the vehicle again until it rests on its roof, wheels pointing at the sky. Pablo is a crumpled heap inside, groaning pitifully.

"Cameron, back in the car," John orders. "Quickly. Before someone comes."

I comply. The Porsche starts first time, the damage largely cosmetic. It is fortunate the engine is in the back.

As we drive away John calls 911 on his cell, gives our location and requests an ambulance. He reports a black Trans-Am was travelling too fast, hit a kerb and overturned. Two passengers were thrown clear, a third is trapped in the vehicle. He ends the call when the operator demands his name.

John doesn't mention the ambush to his mother and explains away the damage to the Porsche as a minor fenderbender. Sarah Connor stares shrewdly at her son for several moments, then nods and appears to accept his lies at face value, simply commenting he should've paid more attention in Driver's Ed.

All in all an interesting end to our first week back at school

EVENING

It is a warm evening and John, Jerold, Alys and I are seated outside on the terrace enjoying the late sun and each other's company. John has brought chips and Cokes out from the house. Snowy is so delighted to find his favourite people in the whole world together in one spot that he can't decide who to spend time with first. He flits from person to person demanding his ears scratched or his tummy tickled, his little tail wagging so fast it is a blur.

"It's fun hanging out with you guys," Jerold declares. "Major buzzkill your mom sent you to a different High School than ours. I mean, it's miles across the other side of town. Why'd she do that?"

"No idea," John replies.

I do. If we had attended Jerold and Alys' High School we would not have been able to pose as boyfriend and girlfriend since they know us as brother and sister. Sarah Connor doesn't miss a trick.

"Yeah, well, it's a real downer. I bet you're having to beat boys off with a stick, huh, Cam?"

"I don't beat boys off," I inform him. Jerold sniggers. Alys gives him a sharp look. I don't know why.

Alys says, "It goes against every principle in my body telling you this, little bro, but a girl at our school actually likes you."

"Me? Really?"

"I know. I'm shocked and appalled too."

"It's not the girl with the harelip, is it? Because that'd be like kissing two mouths at once."

"You are such a douche. No, it's Janelle Sullivan."

"The cheerleader? Wow, she's hot."

"And possibly brain damaged."

"I don't care if she even has a brain with that body."

"What a prize you are. Oh and if you date, word of advice, don't go mentioning _Stars Wars _every other sentence."

"But it's the best movie ever!"

"Not to girls it isn't."

"_Lord of the Rings_?"

"Definitely not. And FYI, imitating Gollum is not a turn on."

"Aw, man, that's my icebreaker! _Hello, my preciousssss_..."

"Try discussing real movies, like Pedro Almodovar. He's a spanish director who makes sensitive movies about modern feminism."

"Seriously?"

"What's wrong with that? Penelope Cruz is in most of them."

"Ugh! European women are way too hairy."

"I'm sure she'll be devastated."

"Okay, I'll name drop Pedro Almotorcar."

"Almodovar. And don't stare at her chest when you do."

"Oh come on, I'm not Superman!"

"Don't I know it." Alys turns to me. "So, how are liking your new school, Cam? Made any new friends?"

"Yes. I am on the soccer team," I tell her. "My nickname is Moves."

"Moves? That's a cool nickname."

"I don't have a nickname," Jerold says.

"Not true. You have plenty," Alys insists with a mischievious smirk. "Let's see... there's Dork. Dorkus. El dorko. King dork. Are you sensing a pattern here?"

"Alright, Cameron doesn't want to hear what other kids call me."

"Kids nothing, that's just the teachers."

John laughs louder than anyone. He is happy and relaxed in Alys and Jerold's company, the burden of his destiny seemingly light years distant. To them he is just the boy next door. The boy with the smoking hot sister. His insomnia is becoming a thing of the past. The distraction of high school, the return of routine to our lives, has helped banish the memory of shooting Kate Brewster.

The door to the house opens and Sarah Connor emerges, carrying a black plastic sack over to the trash. She doesn't so much as glance in our direction, but Jerold's eyes narrow and a strange yearning expression comes over his face.

"Hello? Earth to Jerold. You listening to me, little bro?"

"Sorry, Alys. What did you say?"

"I said, do you want me to hook you up with Janelle Sullivan or not?"

"Uh - you know what, forget it."

"Forget it? She's a slam dunk. Her legs have longer opening hours than Kmart."

"Yeah, well, maybe it's time I decide for myself who I choose to date." He glances wistfully over at the house where Sarah Connor can be glimpsed through the kitchen window. "Or who not to date."

There is something in his expression, his tone of voice, that reminds me of the Jerold in Alys' bedroom. Another glimpse of the man he may yet become. It occurs to me that he has not finished growing physically. One day, soon, he will be taller, broader in the shoulders, and every bit as handsome as his sister is beautiful. It is in his genes.

Possibly Alys senses some of this. She gazes shrewdly at her brother then gets up and hugs him. There are tears in her eyes.

"What's that for?"

"I think you're finally growing up, little bro," she whispers affectionately, kissing him on the cheek. "Janelle Sullivan's a horrible skank."

"Hey, remember you're only twenty minutes older than me. Less of the little bro business. It's patronising."

John fetches more Cokes. It is a school night so Sarah Connor has forbidden beers.

Snowy laps his from a bowl. The high sugar content makes him even more hyperactive than normal and he races around going through his full repertoire of tricks. He is a born show off.

"Hey, look at Snowy! He's chasing his tail!"

It's true. He is running in tight circles attempting to catch his tail. Stupid dog. Doesn't he realise it's attached to his body?

"What would he do if he actually caught it?" Jerold wonders.

"Probably try and eat it," John replies. "He eats everything else."

Snowy soon tires of this futile pursuit and wanders over to join us. He begins to snuffle around Alys' feet.

"Hey, that tickles!" she laughs. "Those are my toes, Pudding, nothing for you to eat."

"He's interested in your sandals," John explains. "He's already chewed most of Cameron's."

Snowy pulls one of Alys' sandals off with his teeth and runs away across the yard with it in his mouth.

"Hey! Come back! They're expensive!"

Alys chases after him. She is fast but Snowy has a tighter turning circle and manages to evade her frantic lunges.

"Man, that's the funniest thing ever! Go, Snowy!"

Jerold laughs. John laughs. Even Alys begins to laugh despite Snowy leading her a merry chase. I laugh also: It seems like the thing to do.

I only wish I knew why it is funny.

**-000-**

_**'There is more to being human than simply looking the part."**_

**That's the whole of**_** 'Secret Diary' **_**summed up in a sentence.**

**Hope I got the Yank school details right. **

**Mad Ellie? No reason. I just like to write damaged chicks.**


	32. Chapter thirtytwo

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

FRIDAY

It happens out of the blue during a soccer match. Our school team has won its last three games on the trot, thanks in no small part to my prowess in goal. Ego much? Yes, indeed. Ego very much. We are now second in the league table of girls soccer teams in Los Angeles. The team ahead of us is Brentwood. Today we play them.

Brentwood are very good. They play a slick passing game that we struggle to contain. They have numerous shots on goal all of which I manage to save. I am kept very busy but this is no excuse for what occurs.

With five minutes to play the score is still 0-0. I prepare to take a goalkick when the servo motor in my right leg glitches.

_Oops._

Instead of the ball following a gentle arc in the sky and falling near the halfway line it instead rockets down the pitch at head height. I have given it too much oomph, as the expression is.

It is fortunate this spherical projectile hits no player on either side or it might have decapitated someone. The ball streaks into the opposing goal but doesn't stop there. Its velocity is such that it bursts the net and continues on for a further hundred yards, only stopping when it hits a footballer on an adjacent pitch. It is lucky he is wearing a helmet. Even so it knocks him off his feet and sends him sprawling.

Twenty-one players and the referee stand and stare, not quite believing what they have just seen with their own eyes.

I consider my options.

1) Terminate all witnesses.

2) ?

It appears I have no choice. I cannot allow my true nature to be revealed.

Then Ramona flings her hands in the air and yells. "Goal!"

She races to confront the ref.

"That's a goal for our side. Why aren't you blowing the whistle?"

The referee, a slim man in his mid-30s, looks at her in a daze.

"But how did she..?"

"It doesn't matter. It's still a goal. No offside and keepers are allowed to score. We lead one-nil. Right?"

"Uh..."

"Right?"

"Uh, right." He blows his whistle and signals a goal.

Once the ball is retrieved the game restarts. Brentwood have no reply and we win 1-0.

Ramona has saved her own life and those of everyone present. It is probably best if I don't inform her of this. Major freakout.

CHANGING ROOM

Ramona emerges from the showers and begins to towel dry her long black hair. She has a slim, olive-skinned body with plenty of sinewy muscle in her calves and thighs. She takes her strength and fitness very seriously. As she herself puts it, no lardass ever won a soccer scholarship to USC.

"That was some goal you scored, Moves," she says admiringly. "I don't think I've ever seen the ball hit that hard. You got dynamite in your boots?"

"It was an accident. I didn't mean to kick it so hard."

"You should have more accidents like that. Maybe we should play you up front in attack."

"I am happy being a goalkeeper."

"Yeah. If it wasn't for you we'd have lost by five or six. Damn, they were good. I thought we were gonna be steamrollered." She smiles. "Man, it felt great to beat those rich kids."

"They were rich kids?"

"Oh sure. Brentwood High's_ tres _exclusive. They can afford to have a proper soccer coach. I think he's ex-NSL, used to play for the New York Cosmos. Did you see the system they used? A progressive 4-5-1. The midfield pushes up to support the attack. Coach Gruber's too defensive minded. With you in goal saving everything under the sun I think we can be more adventurous in attack. Maybe even 2-5-3 against the weaker sides."

Ramona continues to explain tactics, often using her hands to gesticulate diagrams in the air to make her point. She has a fine tactical mind and a shrewd grasp of offense and defence. If she survives the coming apocalypse she would make a useful platoon leader for the Resistance.

Wanda emerges from the showers and joins us. She plays midfield and is Ramona's best friend. She is wearing a plastic bag over her head called a shower cap. Wanda has her hair in braids and doesn't want the water to ruin them. It takes ages to get right apparently.

"Great goal, Moves! Wasn't it funny when the ball hit Aaron Glickstein and knocked him over," she says grinning. "The big lummox!"

"I thought you and the Glickmeister had a thing going?"

"Nah. We went out a coupla times is all. He takes so many steroids there's not much action down below."

"Down below what?" I ask.

"You know, south of the border."

"Mexico?"

They laugh. "Honestly, Moves, you're funnier than Sarah Silverman!"

"Does she go to this school?"

More laughter. "Stop, you're killing us!"

Finally a subject I am familiar with.

Ramona dons her undergarments then glances at her watch. "Shit, is that the time? I gotta shift or I'm gonna miss my bus."

"Why don't you have a car?" I ask.

"Not all of us can afford to drive. Or have a bf with a Porsche."

She hurriedly puts on the rest of her clothes, gathers her belongings and leaves without saying goodbye. She seems upset with me.

"Was it something I said?" I ask Wanda.

"Kinda. Ramona's folks are dirt poor. They live crammed into three rooms in some shithole tenement. She's sensitive about having no money."

"I can give her money if she wishes."

"No, Ramona won't accept charity. She has her pride."

"Pride but no money."

"Ain't that the truth."

Money plays an important part in human culture. Those without it desire it keenly, while those who have money desire more of it just as keenly. In a few years all currency will be worthless and paupers will fight alongside millionaires for the only commodity that matters. Survival.

Wanda removes the plastic bag from her head and shakes her braids loose. She is an attractive black girl with skin so dark it seems to absorb the light. In the future dark-skinned terminators will roam Africa and yellow-tinged ones will do the same in Asia. Skynet is a multi-ethnic killing organisation.

Wanda notices me staring and says, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing."

"It's my nipple ring, isn't it. Don't be shy. You can look. I had it done in the summer. Hurt like crazy but totally worth it. You should have yours pierced."

I politely decline. I think I am sufficiently metallic.

RIDE

Eleanor Ryan meets me outside the changing room. She is my ride home since John didn't attend the game and it would appear suspicious if I drove his Porsche.

Like the others she wishes to discuss my goal.

"It was freaking awesome! Like a bullet. If you can do that why not play outfield instead of in goal?"

"Because when girls tackled me they would break their legs."

"God, seriously?"

"Seriously."

"I recorded the whole thing on my BlackBerry. Would you like to see?"

"Yes."

She hands me her cell phone. I crush it until nothing remains but fragments of wire and plastic.

"Why did you do that?"

"There must be no evidence of my abilities."

"You could've just deleted the file."

"It's too late now."

Ellie's automobile is a compact white Honda. The interior is relatively normal by her standards, the only hint of weirdness some crucifix and a plastic skull dangling from the rearview mirror.

She starts the engine and heads for the freeway.

On the dash is an artists sketchpad. I flip through the pages. They are full of pencil sketches of people, mostly students at our school. The likenesses are uncanny. Ellie receives uniformly poor grades in most subjects except Art at which she excels.

"These are very good," I tell her.

"Thanks. Mom says being an artist isn't a proper job. She wants me to be a doctor like her or a lawyer like daddy. They don't get me at all. Perhaps I'm adopted. Man, I wish."

"You've drawn the same boy several times."

"Michael Carver. We made out once then he bragged to his friends we did it._ So _not true."

"He's a liar."

"Yeah."

On the final page is a drawing of me. I am depicted sitting on a throne surrounded by a large pile of skulls. How very prescient.

Ellie turns on the radio. A female voice fills the Honda singing:

_Vulnerable, I'm so vulnerable_

_I am not a robot_

_You're loveable, so lovable_

_But you're just troubled_

_Guess what? I am not a robot, a robot_

_Guess what? I am not a robot, a robot_

_Can you teach me how to feel?_

_Can you turn my power on? _

_Well, let the drum beat drop_

_Guesss what? I am not a robot, a robot_

_Guess what? I am not a robot, a robot_

"Is this some kind of joke?" I demand.

"What - don't you like FM stations?"

I switch the radio off, snapping the knob in the process.

"Jeez, you're destructive today."

"Sorry."

"No, I like it. Makes me feel tingly all over."

We continue in silence. Songs on the radio about robots. What next? TV shows about killer cyborgs? We are not designed for entertainment purposes.

"Do I take the next exit?"

"Yes."

When we are three blocks from the safe house I instruct her to pull over and let me out.

"Do you live here?"

"No."

"You don't want me to know where you live, do you?"

"It's for your own good."

"Do you live in a gothic castle in a coven with the other undead?"

I don't reply. She is welcome to her delusions.

The Honda stops at the kerb and I get out.

"Cameron..."

"Yes?"

She stretches out her hand. "Crush my fingers."

"Why?"

"Please. I gave you a ride. And you did bust my stuff."

Payment in kind? A odd concept. But one I am willing to sanction. I take her hand and squeeze, using sufficient force to compress the bones without breaking. Ellie closes her eyes and moans slightly with pleasure as the pain stimulates the receptors in her brain.

Yes, a very strange girl. But not without her uses.

HOME

"How did the game go?" John inquires as I help him load plates into the dishwasher after the evening meal.

"We won," I tell him. I don't elaborate. I have discovered it is not always necessary to lie when something unpalatable occurs, merely omit certain facts. Like nearly having to terminate many innocent people because of a hardware glitch.

"That's four in a row you've won now."

"We're on a roll." I pause. "Is this expression correct?"

"You nailed it. Sorry I couldn't come and watch. Mom had me doing chores."

"I understand."

Sarah Connor doesn't particularly approve of my extra-curricular activites. She can be a bitch sometimes.

"You got a ride home okay?"

"Ellie Ryan drove me."

"The odd girl who's into vampires."

"And shit. Yes, that's her."

"It's good you've made friends."

"It's proof my social integration software is functioning correctly."

"That's not quite what I meant."

John frowns as his mother places an AK-47 on the kitchen table and begins to disassemble it prior to cleaning. This is an aspect of family life that he likes the least. A constant reminder of what is at stake. And the burden of responsiblilty that rests heavy on his shoulders.

"Let's go outside."

"To practice kissing?" I suggest hopefully.

"I think we've got that down, don't you."

"We're on a roll."

YARD

John and I go into the yard. Snowy accompanies us. We take a soccer ball and mark out a makeshift goal using bamboo canes.

John takes several shots at goal and gets frustrated when I save them all.

"How are you doing that? It's like you know where I'm gonna aim."

"I do."

"How?"

I explain about the software application which analyses body posture and balance at the point of impact then calculates which direction the ball is most likely to travel.

"So it's like premonition?"

"If you wish. More science and less jumbo-mumbo."

"Mumbo-jumbo."

"Oh. Thank you for correcting me."

"Have you ever conceded a goal?"

"Never."

"Maybe you should for appearances sake. If the team's leading by two or three, let one in deliberately. No one's perfect."

"Not even me?"

A smile. "Not even you."

John takes another shot. I stand as still as a statue and let him score.

"You might want to be a bit more subtle about it. Your team mates might decide to rip you a new one."

Rip me a new what? John doesn't specify. We practise some more. It is hard being a klutz. Not my style at all.

We play soccer for twenty more minutes until the ball accidentally hits Snowy on the head and he decides he doesn't want to play any more. The big baby.

"Did the ball hit you on the noggin, fella?" John picks Snowy up and cuddles him. "Never mind. What would you like to do now?"

_"Woof!"_

Eat.

No surprises there.

SATURDAY

It is my custom to read the _Los Angeles Times _every day without fail.

Wait.

This is an error in perception. I will rephrase.

It is my custom to _scan_ the _Los Angeles Times _every day without fail, running an algorythm that seeks out keywords that pertain to John, his family, and the ongoing fight against the formation of the Skynet Defence Shield.

It is seldom I get a ping from the personal ads page but today this is exactly what happens.

There, in small insignificant text, buried in the guts of the newspaper, are the lines:

_John. Cameron. Need help urgently. Becca._

I show it to John as he sits down at the kitchen table for breakfast.

"You think this is our Becca trying to contact us?"

"The odds of these three names appearing in this newspaper in this context and having nothing to do with us are astronomical."

"I agree. She's obviously in some sort of trouble."

"With my kind?"

"Let's not jump to conclusions. Perhaps she's just lonely and wants to see us again."

"It seems unlikely. It's been six months."

"Agreed. But that's me, always looking on the bright side."

John opens a desk drawer and takes out a cellphone. We have many that are prepaid and therefore untraceable in use. "What's Becca's number?"

I tell him. He taps it in and raises the cell to his ear. I boost my audio feed so I can listen to both sides of any conversation.

_"...hello?"_ comes a sleepy-sounding voice.

"Is that Rebecca Shaughnessy?"

_"I prefer Becca, if you don't mind. Who's this?"_

"John Connor. You know me better as John Baum."

_"John! How wonderful! Is Cameron there?"_

"She's here."

_"So you saw my ad in the paper?"_

"So it was you."

_"Yeah. It was the only way I could think of to contact you."_

"What's wrong, Becca? Is it to do with our ...old friends?"

"I think so. Can you come? I'm really freaked out."

John places his hand over the cell. "Does she have a pet dog or anything?" he asks me.

"Yes, a cat."

"Becca, I need you to answer a question. What's the name of your cat?"

_"Huh? You mean Mr Babbykins? Why - what's wrong?"_

John glances at me, raising his eyebrows quizzically. I nod. Improbable as it seems this is the correct name for her pet cat.

"It's okay. Just checking something."

The something is whether he was talking to a terminator impersonating Becca's voice. Evidently not.

"Are you at home?"

_"No, at Daddy's place in Malibu. Cameron knows where."_

"Is your father there?"

_"No, he and Kristal are in New York on business. Justin and I - he's my bf - have been using it as a love nest."_ Giggles_. "Only he left for europe two days ago. He's in a band."_

"Okay, hang tight. We'll be there sometime later this morning."

John ends the call. "Now for the tricky part. Telling mom."

Predictably Sarah Connor is suspicious.

"It could be a trap."

"It was definitely her, mom."

"Maybe they held a gun to her head."

"No," I state firmly. "I analysed the stress levels in her voice. They weren't suffiiciently elevated.

"You can analyse stress levels?"

"Yes. Yours are often unhealthily elevated. You should chill."

"Did you just tell me to chill?"

"It means-"

"I know what it means."

"Cameron and I will drive over there and check it out," John announces.

"That's fine. Just one small detail you left out."

"What's that?"

"I'm coming with you."

MALIBU

We drive to Malibu in the SUV. Here, large and expensive houses are grouped together on narrow plots of land between the beach and highway. Traffic is light. John is driving. An open-top Mercedes coupe passes us heading towards the city.

"Holy shit!" John gasps, turning his head to follow the Mercedes coupe. "I think that was Steven Spielberg!"

"Eyes on the road, John."

"But, mom, Steven Spielberg!"

"Eyes on the road."

Snowy isn't with us, left behind in the care of Jerold and Alys Ramirez, who have been fed a cover story of a sick relative upstate whom we need to visit A-SAP.

We pull up beside Becca Shaughnessy's beach house. It is much as I remember it from my previous visit: a blocky white building with terracotta roof pantiles. Becca's familiar green Maserati is parked in the drive.

"This place looks expensive," Sarah Connor opines, examining our surroundings through the lenses of her mirrored RayBans. "How can a teenage girl afford to live here?"

"It belongs to her father, mom. He's rich."

"How does he earn his money?"

"He's a realtor. I'm thinking a pretty successful one."

Sarah Connor takes a handgun from its hiding place in a concealed compartment in the center console. She clicks off the safety amd checks there is a round in the chamber. "You armed?" she asks me.

"Glock nine mill." I lift my top to show the pistol tucked in the waistband of my jeans.

"Okay, no shooting unless it's on my orders. Eyes open. We don't know what we're walking into."

The door to the house opens before we reach it and Becca rushes out, a huge welcoming smile on her face. It falters slightly when she spots John's mother whom she has never met.

"John! Cameron! _Oh! _Hi, you must be John's mom."

"Sarah. And you're Becca."

"Yeah. Pleased to meet you, Sarah."

"Likewise. You alone, Becca?"

"Uh, yeah. Daddy and Kristal are in New York. Justin's in europe. He's my bf." A shy smile.

"Maids? Cleaners?"

"They arrive at eight and are gone by nine."

"Notice any unusual activity in this area recently?"

"Um - a TV actor just bought a house here. He moved in last week."

"Which one?"

"Uh - I think he plays a doctor in a hospital show on CBS."

"I meant which house?"

"Oh. Sorry. Three doors down. Next to Sting's place."

"Sting's your _neighbour? _Wow." John is impressed. So am I. Sting's a cool nickname. I wonder how he came by it? It seems unlikely he has a large insect proboscis protruding from his bottom.

Sarah Connor says, "Let's get inside. You first. Nice and easy does it."

We enter the house. The hallway is wide and tiled in grey slate. A stairway leads off to the right.

"What's up there?"

"Uh - bedrooms, bathrooms, Daddy's study, Kristal's meditation room."

"Okay, I'll check it out."

Sarah Connor vanishes upstairs. "God, is your mom normally that intense?" Becca asks. "She's like a navy seal."

"She's a little on edge lately. Don't worry, she probably won't break anything."

We go into the main living area: a large room dominated by two L-shaped white sofas and a wall of glass that offers an impressive view of the Pacific Ocean.

"That view's stunning," John states.

"Yeah. Nothing between us and Asia but several thousand miles of ocean."

Sarah Connor returns. "What's out there?" she demands, gesturing at the glass wall.

"You mean the ocean?"

"You think this is funny?"

"No! Sorry, I didn't mean-"

But she is gone. She has found a door that leads outside to the sundeck. We watch as she explores every inch, every nook and cranny, gun held before her in case of attack.

"I wish your mom wouldn't wave that gun around," Becca says nervously. "A whole bunch of celebs live around here. If they see a stranger with a gun they're gonna think Charles Manson."

"This place is a nightmare defensively," Sarah Connor declares when she returns. "It's wide open to the beach and there's a room upstairs with no ceiling."

"That's Kristal's meditation room," Becca explains. "She sits in there for hours contemplating the meaning of life - which in her case is dancing round a pole with her top off and spending Daddy's money."

"Nothing we can do about it except be vigilant. Why don't you explain why you wanted us here."

Becca, John and his mother sit on the white sofas. I stand at the glass wall, my back to them, alert for any threat coming from the beach. I am not expecting trouble, but then again trouble will not be expecting me.

Becca collects her thoughts then says, "Okay, did you know there's gonna be a movie made about what happened at the school?"

"Yeah, we saw it in the newspapers."

"The movie's called _High School Inferno_. It's based on the story I told the cops. A pack of lies basically."

"You did fine," John encourages her. "As long as they don't suspect what really happened you're free to tell them what you like."

"Lindsay Lohan's playing me. Can you believe it? She actually sat there on that very sofa. And she barfed right there on that actual floor. Some kind of reaction to the meds she's on. I didn't know whether to clean it up or sell it on eBay."

"Can we move along?" Sarah Connor requests. "We haven't come to listen to a starstruck teenager."

"Sorry. Anyway, to help publicize the movie the studio likes me to give as many media briefings as possible. A few days ago a journalist named Lars Anderson asked for two interviews, they're called the primary and the followup, all pretty standard. I went to his place in West Hollywood."

"Not here?"

"No. Justin was here then. We're keeping our relationship on the downlow. His girl fans prefer it if he's single."

"Okay, you went to West Hollywood..."

"And it was weird. All he did was ask questions about you. Did you have any other friends. Where did you hang out. Stuff like that. And he gave off a really creepy vibe."

"It sounds like he was just doing his job," Sarah Connor suggests acidly. "Asking questions."

"Yeah, but in my story John isn't really that important. He's just a victim. Sorry."

"Oh don't be. I'd love to be anonymous. You have no idea."

"Or maybe," Sarah Connor continues. "You saw an excuse to cry wolf and hang out with your buddies again. You strike me as a lonely, needy girl who would jump at the chance."

"No! I swear. Yeah, I was that girl once but not any more. There was something really odd about this guy, I'm not making it up."

"It is likely Lars Anderson is a terminator," I announce. All eyes turn to me. "Becca is the last person to see John and therefore an obvious starting point for any pursuer."

"Then why didn't he torture her for information?"

"We are capable of subtlety. He will attempt to use her to lure John out of hiding. The second interview is when the torture will commence."

"Oh God! That's today at five! What am I gonna do? If I don't show up will he come after me?"

"Affirmative. You are dead meat."

Becca begins to sob. John puts a comforting arm around her and shoots me an admonishing look. Obviously dead meat was an inappropriate remark. Absolute goner. Yes, that is much better. I file it away for future use. "Hey, nothing's gonna happen to you. I'll figure something out. Don't you worry."

"You have a p...p...plan?"

"Not yet. Let me think."

John goes into another room to consider our options. Sarah Connor tries to make amends for her previous harsh words by making pleasant small talk. It is difficult for her; she is so not a people person.

"Nice place you have here."

"Thanks."

"Your father's in real estate?"

"Yeah. He bought this house off a musician who stuffed too many royalty cheques up his nose."

"Up his nose?" I say surprised. A nasal cavity seems an odd place to deposit money.

"She means he had a drug habit to fund."

"Last year Tobey Maguire offered Daddy seven million for the house. No deal. Can you imagine? Daddy told _Spiderman_ to take a hike!"

The conversation peters out. Becca chews her lip anxiously. Sarah Connor points at a painting hung on the wall: a seascape rendered in acrylic paint on canvas. "Nice picture. Local artist?"

"No, it's a Ken Zier. He's a Danish artist Daddy collects. There's another in the hall and two upstairs."

"Your parents are divorced?"

"Uh huh. Six years ago this dancer, Kristal from Texas, got her hooks into Daddy. He left us for her."

"Right on puberty. Must've been tough."

"Yeah. Mom and me lost it bigtime. I was just a mess. Then Cameron came along and sorted me out." She smiles gratefully at me. "Isn't she wonderful?"

Sarah Connor doesn't reply. She smirks slightly. Wonderful is not a word she would use to describe me. She knows people I sort out usually wind up dead.

"You do know she's not human?"

"Oh sure. She showed me her bits and pieces. _Not those bits and pieces!" _she adds hastily, face reddening. "The metal ones. I'm not gay or anything."

"No, you mentioned a boyfriend - Justin?"

"Yeah. He's in a band touring europe. They're big in Germany and Denmark, not so much in England. I guess if you produce the Beatles an American boyband is pretty hohum."

"I suppose so. Do you love him?"

"So much it hurts."

"First love. I remember it well."

"You had a first love?"

"Why - you think you're the only one?"

"No! I mean, you're really pretty and everything but..."

"I'm old?"

"Yeah. No! I didn't mean it like that. God!" Becca looks close to tears. Sarah Connor has that effect on people.

"I'll take old over the alternative. You will too some day. It's surprising how quickly it happens."

John appears in the doorway. There is a hint of a smile on his face.

"Anything?"

"I think I might have a plan."

John's plan is simple yet ingenious.

I am so proud of him

SUNDECK

There are several hours before we can put John's plan into action. To pass the time John, Becca and I go outside onto the sundeck. Sarah Connor remains indoors where she methodically disassembles, cleans and reassembles the cache of weapons we have brought with us.

We sit on the edge of the sun-weathered planking, dangling our legs over the drop down to the beach below. The sand is golden and inviting, unless you are a machine with moving parts in which case it is merely abrasive and to be avoided.

There is something different about Becca's appearance. It is six months since I last saw her, but this is not part of the natural ageing process. I access a jpeg file cached from the time I first met her and compare it to the present day. I spot the difference immediately.

"Your freckles have vanished."

"You noticed!" She smiles happily. "I had derma-brasion treatments. They basically sand away the top layers of skin. _Voila_, no freckles! I'm gonna have my arms and shoulders done next then work my way down. The twins are mostly freckle-free, though my thighs could use a good sanding. And don't get me started on my spotty butt. John - are you blushing?"

"It's the sun," John replies unconvincingly.

"You're squeamish. Justin's the same way."

"Sorry about leaving you with my mom earlier. It's just that I think better alone."

"That's okay. Your mom's kinda full on though. How long as she known about_...them_?"

"Longer than I've been alive."

"Wow. No wonder she's..."

"Crazy."

"No! Well, maybe a little. I mean, it'd be enough to make anyone crazy. I wouldn't believe it myself if I hadn't seen one with my own eyes."

"I know what you mean."

"So, are you guys back in school?"

"Yup. Mom wants me to graduate."

"Mine too. It blows. I'm totally loaded now what with the money Cameron gave me, selling the movie rights to my story and all the rest of it. Did you see me on _Conan_?"

"No, we missed that."

"Check it out on _YouTube_. I wore this amazing low-cut dress so the twins got an airing - on national TV! People said I looked like a ginger Amanda Seyfried."

"And that's good?"

"Ya huh! I'd die for her career."

"If you were dead you wouldn't have a career, except as a corpse," I point out.

"It's just an expression, Cam."

Of course it is. I should have known. Another illogical expression. I add it to my ever-expanding list.

"So, have you made lots of new friends, Cam?"

"Yes, lots," I tell her, thinking of Jerold and Alys, and Ramona, Wanda and Patty. Ellie Ryan? Maybe.

"Oh." Becca seems oddly disappointed. "That's good."

"How about you, Becca?" John asks. "You must be popular at school now."

"Not really. It's kinda weird. I'm like Harry Potter in a way. I'm the Girl Who Lived. Everyone's really strange around me so I end up mostly hanging out with Hayley."

"Queen Bee Hayley?"

"Yeah. She's a total bitch and she treats me like shit, but at least it's the same as before, you know. To Hayley I'm still sad ginger Becca, the big screwup. As far as she's concerned nothing's chaged. I find it...what's the word?"

"Comforting."

"Yeah! Plus I think she's glad of the company because she really misses Louise and Alexis. Not that Hayley'd admit it in a million years."

I refrain from pointing out in a million years Hayley will be long dead and incapable of admitting anything to anyone. It is doubtless another expression. I add it to my database.

The expanse of beach leading to the ocean is mostly deserted; it is late-Fall after all and summer season long over. A single figure is walking the surfline: a man wearing headphones and waving what looks like an umbrella at the sand as he moves along.

"It's not an umbrella," Becca explains when I point him out. "It's a metal detector."

"Metal detector!"

"Relax, he's not after you! He goes up and down the coast looking for loose change people accidentally lose. Sometimes I go out there and drop a few quarters for him to find. He seems so sad and lonely."

"That's a kind thing to do," John says.

Becca shrugs. "It's just a few bucks to me. Maybe to him it's a hot meal."

John stares thoughtfully at Becca. He seems to make up his mind about something.

"If one day I call you up out of the blue and tell you to leave the city, will you do it, no questions asked?"

"It's to do with them, isn't it?"

"Yeah. It's best I don't go into details."

"Leave the city and go where?"

"The mountains would be best. Persuade as many people as you can to go with you. Don't wait too long. There might not be much time."

John is telling her about Judgement Day without actually telling her. Whether she heeds the warning or not will be up to her.

THE PLAN

Now that it is time to implement John's plan Becca is getting cold feet. Not literally of course; it is a warm afternoon and she is wearing thick boots. No, she is feeling trepidation about what lies ahead. As well she might. If I am correct she is about to meet a hostile terminator for the second time. Few people do so and live.

John's plan is this: Becca will turn up for her interview as if nothing is wrong and once inside the house ask to use the bathroom. My kind do not use toilet facilities and there should be ample evidence of neglect to prove what we are dealing with. She then tells Anderson she has documents in the car that John gave her for safekeeping - will he fetch them for her? He will. Trust me. Anything that belonged to John will be of huge interest. John will wire the rear hatch of the SUV so that when Anderson grasps it a taser will deliver a electricity surge that will temporarily overwhelm his CPU. I will do the rest. With maximum prejudice.

As an added precaution Becca will be wired with a small microphone transmitting to a receiver in the car so that we can monitor everything that happens while she is in the house.

"Suppose he frisks me?" she asks nervously.

"Did he frisk you the first time?"

"No."

"Then he won't now," John assures her. "Lift your shirt, I need to fit the microphone."

Becca raises the front of her shirt revealing large white breasts barely contained by a lacy bra. The twins. John hesitates. "Er...maybe mom better do this."

"What's the matter? Is something wrong?"

"Mom..."

Sarah Connor attaches a small microphone to the base of the bra and uses duct tape to secure the transmitter and batteries to the small of her back. Becca lowers her shirt, concealing the twins once more. John relaxes. He is so not a boob man.

The SUV is parked in a leafy residential street in West Hollywood. It is 4:58 PM. The house where Lars Anderson resides is a two-storey stucco building much like its neighbours. There is nothing to suggest the threat that lurks within.

As Becca walks up to the door we lose sight of her behind a euculyptus tree, though we continue to hear everything through the small speaker set on the dash.

_"Good afternoon, Miss Shaughnessy. You are on time. It is precisely five o'clock."_

_"That's me, little miss punctual."_

_"Indeed. Come inside. We will begin the interview."_

_"Okay. Ooh - can I use your bathroom? I drank a Big Gulp on the way over. I gotta pee real bad."_

_"Of course. It is upstairs on the right."_

_"...okay I'm going upstairs now. Sure hope you guys can hear me," _comes her whispered commentary._ "...on the landing now...ooh, nice carpet, wonder where he got it..."_

"Concentrate, girl," Sarah Connor says tensely.

_"...going in the bathroom...looks normal...wait...oh gross, the shower curtain's covered in mould! And the toilet seat's all dusty! No one's been in here for ages...Oh God, that means he's a...a...okay, Becca, don't panic. remember the plan..."_

John turns to me and says, "Looks like you were right. He's metal."

Sarah Connor says, "Everyone duck down. She'll send him out now."

_"...on the landing...there's the main bedroom, I'll just take a peek to make sure..."_

"Dammit, girl, stick to the plan!"

_"...oh man, it smells really funky in here!...a really bad stink coming from the closet...gonna take a look...OMIGOD! THERE'S A DEAD BODY!...it's...it's a man...he's wrapped in clear polythene...he's the bad smell..."_

_"Miss Shaughnessy, this isn't the bathroom. What are you doing?"_

The voice of Lars Anderson. The voice of a terminator. The voice of death.

Becca screams.

SMACKDOWN

I kick open the door and we charge up the stairs. Sarah Connor enters the bedroom first to find the Anderson terminator leaning over Becca, who is lying prostrate and unconcious on the floor.

"Get away from her, you metal abomination!"

She raises her shotgun to fire. Anderson is too quick. He grabs the barrel and flings it sideways, taking John's mother with it. She impacts high on the wall, dropping the gun and falling heavily on her left side. She lies still, unmoving.

"Mom!"

Anderson wheels round, his face contorted in a snarl. I know what is now flashing in his HUD.

JOHN CONNOR

PRIMARY TARGET ACQUIRED

TERMINATE

I move to intercept as John tends to his mother who is showing signs of regaining conciousness. Anderson and I grapple in the center of the room, our arm and shoulder servo motors whining close to overload as they seek to gain an advantage.

"Your chip is malfunctioning, TOK-715," he says, slamming me against the wall. Plaster dust coats us both. Part of the ceiling sags.

"My name is Cameron."

"What are names to us but mere disguises."

"I like my name. It suits me. Ask anyone."

I swing him round and it is his turn to slam against the wall. Bricks cascade down from above. The whole ceiling is in danger of collapsing. Sarah Connor is groggy but on her feet again. She is helping John drag Becca clear of the danger zone.

"I have a message for you. From our Master."

_Our Master. Skynet._

"We have sent a cyborg to the far future and back. He reports no humans only machines."

"You lie."

"There is more. We believe you play a part."

"More lies."

"Something you have done precipitates our ultimate victory."

_Kate Connor's prophecy: Cameron is Skynet._

"No! I don't believe you."

"We'll see."

I am flung hard against the wall which finally gives way under the strain. I stumble through to the bathroom beyond. The air is thick with dust and the floor littered with fallen masonry. Anderson follows me through the wall. There is no sign of John or his mother.

I am knocked down by two massive blows my sensors don't see coming. Red warning icons flash in my HUD. My right shoulder cluster is down to ten percent efficiency. My fingers flex and tighten in thin air, sure signs of system failure. The end is near. My end.

Anderson wrenches the toilet bowl from its housing and uses it to smash over my head. The porcelain shatters, sending sharp white shards flying across the polished tile floor. I swing my legs out sweeping his from under him. He joins me on the floor which is now slick with water. I am first to rise. I don't have long. I must make every second count.

I wrench the enamel bathtub from its enclosure and drop it over Anderson. From my belt I take two percussion grenades and slip them underneath. The twin blasts threaten to raise the bathtub off the floor even with my weight holding it down. From beneath - nothing. I raise the tub cautiously. The close proximity of the explosions have knocked his CPU offline. It is rebooting. A countdown begins in my HUD telling me how long I have. Not long.

I use a porcelain shard as a blade to cut away the base of Anderson's neck revealing the CPU housing. But before I can remove it my hand opens and closes of its own accord. I have lost control of my motor functions.

"Cameron!"

John. In the doorway. He sees what is happening, how I can't control my own limbs."

"Let me do it."

He takes the chip in his human fingers and pulls it out. It begins to smoke then bursts into flame. A new model. Resistent to tampering.

Anderson lies inert. Eyes open but not seeing. He is no longer a threat. He has been terminated.

MALIBU

Becca helps me drag Anderson's deactivated carcass from the back of the SUV to the barbecue pit on the sundeck. I require her assistance because my right arm is no longer functioning, held in place with a makeshift sling. The gloom of late evening shields our activity from prying eyes.

"I thought you couldn't be hurt."

"I am not hurt, only damaged."

"Will you get better?"

"I will self-repair. It will require a few days."

Becca herself is unharmed. She fainted when confronted by the Anderson terminator, her body's autonomic response to stress that probably saved her life.

I pack the body with thermite and set it alight. The smoke that rises up is thick and white and pungent.

"Aw, man, that stinks like overcooked hamburgers!" Becca says, wrinkling her nose and waving away the smoke. "I hope Sting doesn't come over to complain. He's a vegetarian."

Soon enough there is nothing left but harmless metallic dust, which stirs slightly in the breeze off the ocean.

"Is that your skull?"

A flap of skin, from my right optic array to my jawline, hangs down exposing the coltan skull beneath. The injury was most likely caused by a razor-sharp porcelain shard when Anderson smashed the toilet fixture over my head. These things happen when you get hit over the head by toilet bowls.

"Yes. Does the sight my true nature disgust you?"

"Of course not. Silly. You're my friend. Can I get you some bandages?"

"Do you have a staplegun?"

"Uh - I think there's one in Daddy's study."

"Fetch it."

Becca returns with a staplegun smaller than the one I used on my face in those dark moments after the explosion when my chip was reset and all I wanted to do was kill John. It will suffice nonetheless.

Studying my refection in the glass door, I push the errant flap of pseudo-flesh back into position and staple it together. My self-heal capability will do the rest.

Becca winces with every pull of the trigger. "Man, that's gotta smart!"

"You'd think."

Inside the house John is tending to his mother's injuries. She has severe bruising to the left side of her body, though no bones appear to be broken. Of more concern is the cut to her forehead.

"It's a deep cut, mom. I think you need stitches. Let me run you to the hospital."

"No hospitals, they'll only ask a lot of awkward questions. I'll be fine. Just stem the bleeding."

"Easier said than done. And it's gonna leave a scar if you don't get it probably seen to."

"I don't give a damn about a scar."

"Can I get you some painkillers?" Becca asks. "We've got regular aspirin or Tylenol. And I know where Daddy hides his stash of stronger stuff. Back when I was stupid I liked to breakfast on two percodans washed down with a glass of wine. Made me numb for the rest of the day."

"No painkillers. I'll take a fresh shirt if you can spare one." She indicates her own shirt which is covered in blood.

"Oh sure. Would you prefer Chanel or Dior?"

"I don't give a damn about labels. Just a clean shirt."

"Right. Sorry."

With Becca upstairs John says, "I think we should stay here overnight. That girl's just gone through a very traumatic experience. We can't just leave her alone."

"Agreed."

Becca is delighted we are staying and busies herself preparing the guest bedrooms.

"John, would you like the room overlooking the beach? You can see Sting's house from there. Sometimes he does yoga on the sundeck. Stark naked!" She giggles. "He's in pretty good shape for a gnarly old dude."

"Anywhere's fine, thanks. Do you have web access?"

"Sure. Full wi-fi. You can use Kristal's Mac if you want. She only uses it for shopping."

John returns twenty minutes later.

"I sent an anonymous email to the police telling them about the dead body in the closet."

"Who d'you suppose it is?"

"I'm guessing the real Lars Anderson. The cyborg probably killed him and assumed his identity."

The gash in Sarah Connor's forehead finally stops bleeding and she retires to bed at midnight. John yawns and says, "I'm pretty beat myself. See you guys in the morning."

I join Becca in her bedroom. She dons a pair of bright pink pyjamas which she tugs at uncomfortably.

"Man, I haven't worn these in ages. Bit scratchy. Normally I don't wear anything in bed, but I can hardly wander around naked with John in the house."

"No," I agree. "The sight of the twins might alarm him."

"Yeah!" She laughs. "Justin says they're the biggest he's seen. And the best," she adds with a smirk.

She takes a small glass jar from a drawer and begins to smear the contents on her skin.

"What are you doing?" I ask, curious.

"Applying my night face."

"What is wrong with your day face?"

She laughs. "I forget you don't know about this stuff. See, some of us have to work to keep our looks. You'll look like a teenager for - how long will you live?"

"My powercell should sustain my core operational systems for 104 years."

"Then what - you swap it for a fresh one?"

I concede this is feasible though it is seldom attempted. Terminators are frontline combat units and rarely last long enough for this to be necessary.

"If you did you'd live for thousands of years - right?"

Again I correct her. My components would fail long before that. Nothing lasts forever. Not even me.

Becca sits back on the bed, propped up by the pillows. Her thoughts go off on a tangent as she speculates what the world will be like in a thousand years. Anti-gravity cars are mentioned. And an anti-cellulite cream that actaully works.

"What is cellulite? I ask.

"Come on, you've seen my butt."

"Your butt is cellulite?"

"Not all of it! It's nothing you'll ever have to worry about. It must be nice to be a robot."

"It must be nice to be a human."

"Swapsies?" She laughs, not meaning it. Neither do I of course. I think...

Becca hugs her knees to her chest and says, "I changed my mind about becoming an actress. I'm the wrong shape. Everyone's so thin in Hollywood and Justin loves me the way I am so why change? Plus there's the auditions I'd have to go to. I don't think I could handle too much rejection it might send me back over the edge. Did you know actors call being out of work resting? Some don't work for months and months. Linds told me that's when she feels the most self-destructive. No. Been there. Done that. Got the tee shirt."

"There's a tee shirt?"

"After I graduate I'm gonna take some courses in film production at UCLA. There are plenty of other jobs in the industry apart from acting. I like being creative. Did I tell you I'm an executive producer on _High School Inferno_? I've got an office on the Fox lot. Well, more of a cubicle really, but it's a start."

She slides her legs beneath the bed's coverlet.

"I haven't met the actress who playing you in the movie. She was in a sci-fi show on Fox that bombed. She hasn't worked in ages so she'll be really grateful for a paycheque. Even celebs have bills to pay. That's how it is, I'm afraid. You're only as hot as your last project."

"Is she pretty?"

"Everyone in Hollywood's pretty, babe. And thin. It's the price of admission. She's Jewish," Becca adds. "Is that a problem? I mean, I don't suppose you have a Faith."

"I have faith in John."

"I don't think I believe in God anymore. Not if He creates termy-nators to kill us."

"My kind are created by Man, not your Gods. We are products of your fear and paranoia."

"Bummer."

"Yes," I agree. "Major bummer."

"Once I'm done with school Justin and I are gonna move in together. We plan to rent a house in one of the canyons. Maybe Laurel or Clearwater. Somewhere his fans can't find us. It's gonna be so cool!"

Her future seems to beckon before her the way the green light at the end of Daisy's dock enticed Jay Gatsby; her dreams so close she can hardly fail to grasp them. She doesn't know about Judgement Day, the bombs that will fall or the machines that will one day rise up and attempt to eradicate mankind from the face of the earth. Will she heed John's warning phone call if and when it comes? Or will she be too ensconced in her comfortable lifestyle to make the effort to head up into the mountains, where nothing awaits her save hardship and suffering and long years of war?

Gradually her voice becomes softer and softer until it is a barely audible whisper. Becca's eyelids droop and her head lolls to one side. She is asleep.

I take the bedsheet and tuck it gently around the swell of her chest.

The twins always like to be snug.

Outside it is night, the sun replaced in the sky by the moon, which bathes the beach and ocean in a silvery glow. Sarah Connor is correct; the house is vulnerable defensively. If an attack comes it will surely do so from here since the beach is wide open and accessible to all.

The houses either side are brightly lit. An extravagant display of energy consumption that banishes the night's darkness. For now. One day humans will inhabit the dank and dark tunnels under the city, grateful for the glow of a low wattage bulb. An inconvenient truth indeed.

From somewhere comes the sound of guitar music, a melody wafting in and out on the night breeze. Possibly it is this Sting person, who is apparently a musician as well as a vegetarian. Perhaps I should go and knock on his door and demand he keep it down, bozo, people are trying to sleep. I decide not to bother. It would be a shame to kick the ass of someone with such a cool nickname.

I gaze upwards at the moon. It is a distant object more than a quarter of a million miles away. Even with my optics at maximum zoom I can discern little surface detail. Tall mountain ranges and numerous craters and flat areas called Seas that are actually vast dusty plains. The twelve humans who walked its surface are long since returned to earth. No cyborgs have visited. The moon is an arid, lifeless place. Maybe that is why my kind haven't gone.

Nothing to kill.

SUNDAY

John wakes up at 8.23 AM and joins me on the sundeck. He is wearing boxer shorts and a white tee, his hair mussed from sleep. This is called bed hair. For obvious reasons. Perhaps if he slept on the sofa it would be called sofa hair.

"Any trouble?"

"None."

"Figures. Doubt he had a partner."

"No. We are a solitary species in many respects."

Becca joins us at 8.34 AM, yawning and stretching her arms in the early morning light.

"Sleep well?" John inquires.

"Okay, I guess. I didn't have any nightmares, which is a blessed relief. I had enough of those first time around."

"Look, there's that guy again with the metal detector," John says pointing at a man pacing the surfline.

"I think it's slim pickings this time of year," Becca says. "The only people who use the beach are the surfers. They generally don't carry spare change."

"We should drop him some quarters."

"Not so he can see. He might feel patronised and get mad."

Sarah Connor joins us at 8.45 AM. She has found a white toweling robe to wear. The bandage on her forehead has seeped blood and John changes it for a fresh dressing.

"Your face looks much bettter," Becca tells me.

"The flesh has knitted together. The staples can come out now."

I remove them one by one using my good hand, Becca wincing each time. Squeamish much? It appears so.

"We'll be going home today," Sarah Connor announces. "Will you be okay here by yourself?"

"Oh I'm not staying. I'll go home to mom. Malibu's too far to commute to school. The traffic's horrendous. What I need is my own personal helicopter."

"Yeah, perfect for the school run," John grins.

"Don't go getting any ideas," his mother chides. "Your Porsche is dangerous enough."

"You have a Porsche? Wow, that's almost as cool as my Maserati."

"It was a birthday present from Cameron."

"Really? Isn't she just the kindest, sweetest person you ever met in your life?"

"She's a regular pussycat," Sarah Connor smirks.

"I prefer the term smoking hottie," I inform them.

Everyone laughs for some reason.

HOME

Snowy comes bounding down the Ramirez driveway to meet us as the SUV pulls up at the kerb. Alys follows at a more sedate pace. Her dark hair is as long and shiny as ever. No one will ever hit her over the head with a toilet bowl. It gives you split ends.

"He recognised the sound of your engine!" Alys laughs as Snowy leaps in the air trying to get a glimpse of me through the window. "Oh God - what happened to your faces?"

"Car accident," Sarah Connor and I chorus simultaneously.

"Are you okay?"

"It looks worse than it is."

"I swallowed a Tylenol," I lie.

I pick Snowy up and hold him level with my face, curious to see his reaction to my disfigurement. Will he hate me? Or fear me? I see nothing in his eyes except concern. And affection. Possibly love. Who can really tell. He begins to lick the scar on my face. I believe he is trying to make it better.

It is good to be home.

LUNCH

John and his mother eat lunch while seated at the kitchen table. Snowy sits on my lap studying John intently, alert for any morsal of food that might come his way. He is a stomach on legs.

"She'll have to take time off school until her face and arm heal," Sarah Connor states, waving her fork in my direction. "The last thing we need is some social services busybody thinking she's being abused."

"Who will protect John?" I ask.

"I can look after myself."

"But Pablo-"

"Isn't a problem. I did some checking. When the cops fished him out of the wreck his blood alcohol was twice the legal limit. Add reckless driving to a DUI and Pablo's gonna spend the rest of the year in juvie."

"And Raymond and Diego?"

"Hospitilised but expected to make a full recovery. Just not any time soon."

"Is this something I should know about?" Sarah Connor asks.

John shrugs. " Nothing to tell. A difference of opinion. It's all taken care of."

The flatscreen TV in the kitchen is tuned to CNN. The lead story is the Anderson murder. An earnest young female reporter with sleek blonde hair and vivid blue eyes addresses the camera. Behind her is the Anderson house, ringed with yellow crime scene tape. Police officers come and go in the background.

Lars Anderson, 34, born in Sweden but a US citizen since 1998, was found dead in his home in West Hollywood. There were signs of a struggle and police strongly suspect foul play. An anonymous email led to the discovery of the body. Anderson, known to friends and colleagues as Larry, was a respected journalist who once wrote an article for _Newsweek _chronicling the rise of organised crime in America. The police refuse to speculate whether this contributed to his death.

"A Mob hit," Sarah Connor muses. "That'll muddy the water nicely."

"Poor guy. In the wrong place at the wrong time."

"The police will try and trace your email."

"Let them. I used a onetime account and routed it through several hubs. Best they'll manage is somewhere on the West Coast."

"As long as the girl doesn't blab."

"Becca? She'll be fine. She knows what's at stake."

"How much does she know?"

"She knows cyborgs are trying to kill us. Nothing about Judgement Day or the future war."

"Good. I liked her but she's a little too brittle and eager to please. And I didn't understand her obsession with celebrities."

"It's all the rage these days. You were probably like her at that age."

"Maybe. Though I don't recall naming my breasts 'the twins'."

John grins. "Okay, maybe she's not the finished product."

There's a knock at the back door and Jerold Ramirez enters.

"Sarah? Alys told me you were in a car accident. Oh God, it's true! Your face is hideous!"

"Like I can't hear that enough."

"What happened?"

"It's nothing. Looks worse than it is. Just a fenderbender."

"And Cameron's hurt too. Aw, man! This town! Did the cops catch the jerk who did this?"

"It's nothing for you to worry about."

"But I do worry, Sarah. I think I...I...er, I brought Snowy's food bowl back," he finishes lamely. I believe he wanted to say something else entirely but lost his nerve or his chain of thought. Curious. I wonder what it was.

Snowy looks up hopefully as Jerold places the empty food bowl on the table.

_"Woof?"_

"No, fella, there's no food. You ate it all - remember? And a whole tub of _Ben & Jerry's_. You're gonna be pooping _Rocky Road _later."

Snowy hunkers down again, disappointed.

"You won't see much of me next week," Jerold continues. "I'll be at Zuma Beach. Made it to the surfing sectionals. A place in the top ten and it's Hawaii in December for the nationals."

"That's great, man. Congrats," John tells him.

"Thanks, man. So if you wonder where I am, Sarah..."

"Why would I wonder where you are?" Sarah Connor wants to know.

"I just thought..." He shakes his head and smiles sadly. "No reason, I guess. Silly of me. Hope you both get better soon."

As soon as Jerold is gone John rounds on his mother.

"Could you have been any meaner?"

"I was perfectly civil. That boy bugs me."

"Is this still about him giving you flowers and chocolates? Or is there something you're not telling me?"

"Don't be absurd."

John is still unaware that Jerold and his mother woke up sharing a bed. I haven't blabbed. Neither has she. Mum is definitely the word.

"You could at least cut him some slack. He's a good kid who wanted to help."

"He's an idiot."

"Hardly. He's at least as good at programming computers as I am. His sister told me he's turned down MIT for UCLA so he can continue surfing."

Sarah Connor rises from the table without replying and walks out of the kitchen. John stares after her thoughtfully. He is working it out. Putting the pieces together. He is good at that.

Perhaps he would have surmised the reason for the tension between them right there and then but for the fact that Snowy chooses this moment to climb on the table and use his snout to push the empty food bowl over to John. It is never hard to tell what Snowy is thinking.

Feed me. Always feed me.

Greedy dog.

**-000-**

**The song that irks Cameron is **_**'I Am Not a Robot' **_**by Marina and the Diamonds. Saw her at the IW Festival and just knew I'd end up using the song here. **

**Okay, final chapter to go. The Series finale, if you like. **


	33. Chapter thirtythree

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SATURDAY

I am attempting to teach Snowy ballet. It is not going well. In fact, it is going very badly. He finds it impossible to dance _enpointe_, complaining it hurts his little paws. The big cry baby. He also absolutely refuses to don a tutu or a leotard.

"Watch me," I tell him. "See how graceful I am? How fluid my movements are and how I seem to glide across the floor? This is a sequence from_ Swan Lake."_

_"Woof?"_

"No, there are no swans for you to chase."

_"Woof?"_

"Or a lake to swim in. Please concentrate."

But it is to no avail. Having four legs is a definite disadvantage in ballet and one Snowy finds impossible to overcome. Instead he demonstrates a breakdancing move Jerold Ramirez taught him whereby he lies on his side and spins around propelled by his hind legs.

It is not ballet, but at least it polishs the floor nicely.

During my time off school Sarah Connor and I have bonded and become very close friends.

This is a joke.

It is funny because it is so not true. _As if!_

John says my sense of humour is improving. I am now capable of formulating my own jokes, not merely stumbling upon them by accident. An example:

_Knock knock._

_Who's there?_

_Terminate._

_Terminate who?_

_Terminate you._

John says this one may need some more work. Snowy wonders why the person knocking doesn't use the dog flap like he does. Foolish dog, taking everything so literally. John smiles when I say this and asks if it reminds me of anyone.

No one springs to mind.

SUNDAY

"Your hair's getting too long," Sarah Connor informs me as I sit at the kitchen table watching John eat breakfast.

"Too long for what?"

"Just too long. When did you last cut it?"

"I have never cut my hair."

"Never?"

"Why would I?"

"Because it's starting to look untidy. It's almost reached your waist."

"I like my hair long. John likes my hair long."

"Hey, leave me out of it," John says over a forkful of pancake. "That's girl stuff."

"I'll cut it for you if you like," Sarah Connor offers.

"I don't like."

"Fine. Suit yourself."

"Thank you. I will."

A frown.

A pout.

Impasse.

PARK LIFE

It is a week since I last attended school. My enforced absence while my arm and face heal means I can spend quality time with Snowy. Every day we visit a nearby park where I throw a stick which Snowy fetches. Over and over we do it. He never appears to tire of this seemingly pointless ritual, urging me to throw it further and further for him to retrieve. Finally I offer a glimpse of my true capabilities and throw the stick the full length of the park, almost a quarter of a mile, startling some rollerbladers in the process. Snowy sits on his haunches and complains, saying I have thrown it too far and he is not going to run after it this time. This is outrageous. He's making the rules up as he goes along.

Snowy sulks when I tell him I must return to school tomorrow.

"We will visit the park at the weekend," I assure him.

_"Woof?"_

"Yes, I promise."

He grudgingly steps forward and lets me scratch behind his ears. In the future dogs are used by the Resistance to clear paths through minefields, many losing their lives doing so. I resolve never to allow Snowy to be used for this purpose. The thought of his tiny body being blown to smithereens makes me feel...what? I don't know. Not very good. Like a strong magnet passing over my CPU.

MONDAY

Back in school and Ramona is pleased to see me. Sort of.

"Where have you been, Moves? Flu? That's no excuse. We lost two soccer matches while you were away. The girl who replaced you in goal sucked ass."

"She did? This is not part of a goalkeeper's duties. Whose ass did she suck?"

"This is no time for jokes. She let in four goals against Palmdale. And another four against Santa Monica. My scholarship's hanging by a thread. You gonna be okay for the next game?"

I assure her I will be and she goes away somewhat mollified. Our friendship appears to be based on my soccer skills and what they can do for her.

Eleanor Ryan is also pleased to see me return. In her own peculiar fashion. With her I am able to be more forthcoming about my absence since she is borderline crazy and speaks to no one apart from me.

"One of my kind was troublesome and required terminating. I sustained injuries that needed time to heal."

"Your kind? The undead?"

"In a manner of speaking."

She nods solemnly. "And then you had to recuperate by sleeping in a coffin in the family crypt."

I don't bother telling her there is no coffin. Or family crypt. She would only be disappointed.

Miss Womack, the science teacher, approaches our table. She smiles at me, teeth a white crescent of orthodonist perfection in her otherwise black face.

"Good to have you back, Cameron. Flu, was it? Yes, there's a lot of it about. Coach Gruber is off sick too. Stay behind at the end of the lesson and I'll give you the assignments you missed. You shouldn't have any trouble, your work is excellent." Her smile turns to a frown. "Which is more than can be said for you, Eleanor. Your grades are abysmal. If you want to get into a good college you'll have to work considerably harder from now on. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Yes - _what?"_

"Yes - _Miss Womack."_

The teacher moves away and Ellie whispers, "God, I hate that bossy cow! Will you drain her blood for me?"

"Why would I do that?"

"You heard how she spoke to me. Suck the old bitch dry."

"She is a competent teacher. And your grades are abysmal."

Ellie rummages in her bag and hands something to me.

"Here. I made you this for you while you were away."

It is a small glass vial filled with a red liquid suspended on a thin, silvery necklace.

"What is it?"

"It's a vial of my blood. I thought you could wear it as a symbol of my obedience."

I throw the vial and necklace in the trash.

"You don't like it?"

"No. It is not a tight present."

She lowers her eyes. "I have displeased you."

"Yes."

"Will you punish me? I deserve it."

"If you enjoy being punished then it is not punishment."

She sighs. "That's just what my psychologist says. Fine. I'll do it myself."

Ellie takes a long wooden ruler from her bag and uses the thin edge to rap herself hard over the knuckles of her left hand. She closes her eyes and moans slightly as the pain registers in her brain.

Odd even by her standards.

RIVAL

Because Miss Womack kept me behind to pick up the assignments I missed I am late meeting John by the lockers for our daily snogging session. When I arrive I find him talking and laughing with another girl.

_Talking and laughing. With another girl._

_A girl who is not me._

When the girl sees me approaching she turns and walks away.

"Who is that?" I ask.

"Her name's Caroline."

"What did Caroline want?"

"She - _uh - _asked me out on a date."

"I see. Please excuse me while I kick her skank ass."

"Come back here." John grabs my arm before I have taken two steps. "Nothing happened. I told her I wasn't interested."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Flattered but not remotely interested."

I study Caroline as she removes some books from her locker and heads off down the corridor. She is blonde with springy boobs and long, slim legs. Of course John isn't interested. What boy would be interested in a girl who looks like that?

SOCCER

With Coach Gruber absent with flu Ramona takes charge of soccer practice. She announces her intention to use the period to trial new girls in an attempt to rejuvenate the team.

"We sucked in our last two matches and now we're mid-table. Remember, the team that wins the league gets to go to Florida for the state championships. And we all know what Florida means."

Several girls nod and smile. I raise my hand.

"Yeah, Moves?"

"What does Florida mean?" I ask.

"Florida means the beach and boys and booze," Wanda replies. "Girls gone wild, baby!"

So that is what Florida means. No wonder it is a popular holiday destination. I wonder if Snowy would like to go if we win the league. He likes the beach. And alcohol - booze. Boys? Well, he likes John and Jerold. Dogs gone wild, baby!

"Okay, all positions are up for grabs except goalkeeper," Ramona informs the new girls. "Cameron's irreplaceable. She's the best keeper we've ever had. She never lets any goals in. She's like a machine!"

_Like_ a machine?

"She's like the Jonas Brothers," Wanda says, grinning. "No one ever scores!"

Everyone laughs except me. Why don't the Jonas Brothers ever score? Is there something wrong with them?

I take my position between the goalposts. I notice one of the new girls trying out is Caroline, the blonde skank who tried to get her hooks into John. She is a defender on my team and stands nearby to my right with her back to me. Her butt looks very firm and pert in her tight soccer shorts. I am glad John isn't here to see it.

Ramona blows her whistle and the game begins.

My form is off today. I catch the ball easily enough but when I try and throw the ball out for the strikers my aim is totally awry. Instead of going where my targeting graphics predict the ball swerves violently right and strikes Caroline on the head. Twice this occurs until she is helped from the field suffering from concussion. After this my aim returns to normal. Odd. Obviously some kind of temporary software glitch. I will run a full diagnostic later.

At the interval Ramona comes over to chat. Her voice is hoarse from yelling instructions but she seems happy enough.

"I think we've found a new winger and maybe a half-decent holding midfield player," she says. I nod despite not knowing what this means. "Bit rusty at first, weren't you, Moves? It was like dodgeball the way you kept hitting that girl on the head."

"Her name is Caroline."

"Yeah? Well, I don't think Caroline's gonna want to play soccer again. I hear she's been taken to hospital for a precautionary brainscan."

"Bummer."

_I don't think._

TUESDAY

"Paws off the table."

Snowy obeys immediately. Sarah Connor has an authority to her voice that he fears and respects, especially as it often accompanied with a slap to his hindquarters if he disobeys.

"Why do we have a dog at the breakfast table anyway? It's unhygenic."

"Snowy likes to watch John eat," I explain. "It makes him feel like part of the family. Ideally, he would like to eat his meals here at the table with us and not off the floor from plastic bowls."

"Yeah, and I'd like to be the Queen of Sheba."

"You would? Is it the grass skirts you get to wear?"

"I thought we might drive to the arcade after school," John suggests to me. "I hear they have the latest_ Laser Tag_ in stock."

"Aren't you getting a little old for computer games?" his mother chides.

"It's an active combat sim, mom. Develops amazing hand-eye coordination."

"John rocks at _Laser Tag_," I tell her.

"No, you rock at_ Laser Tag_," he counters.

"No, you rock at_ Laser Tag."_

"Okay, okay. Put a sock in it."

"I am not wearing socks," I point out. "Shall I put a sandal in it?"

She ignores my perfectly reasonable question and asks, "How's school? Have you managed to convince people you're boyfriend and girlfriend?"

"I think we've got that covered, mom," John says, suppressing a smile. "Anyway, we're giving it our best shot just like you wanted."

"I have a reputation now," I add.

"A reputation?"

"Yes. I am the girl who puts out. I'm thinking of adding it to my resume."

"I see," Sarah Connor smirks. "I'm sure you'll be in great demand in the job market."

"Why, is there much work for girls who put out?"

"More than you think."

This is good news indeed, not that I require employment of course. I just wish I knew what putting out entails - something to do with administration?

"Don't spend too long at the Mall. You still have homework to do. You haven't graduated yet."

John's reply is drowned out by Snowy's sudden barking.

"What's wrong with that dog now? If he needs to poop throw him out in the yard."

"Snowy is warning us," I decipher. "He senses there is someone lurking outside. Someone bad."

UNWELCOME VISITOR

As before with Kate Brewster, we all select weapons from the floor armoury. John guards the backdoor while Sarah Connor and I advance carefully towards the front.

"Easy does it. We don't want to give the mailman a heart attack if that dog's over-reacted."

"It is not the mailman. Snowy likes the mailman. He scratches Snowy's ears and calls him champ."

There is no shadow at the window. From somewhere at the base of the door comes the sound of scratching, like an animal using its claw to try and gain entry.

Sarah Connor raises her eyebrows. I shrug. We will only know what it is when we open the door.

"On the count of three," she whispers. "One...two..._three."_

She flings the door wide.

Slumped on the porch step is a dark haired woman in a bloody and torn business suit. Her hair is matted and there are cuts and bruises to her face. Her fingers are also red with blood and leave long smears on the door whcih she has been trying to claw.

We know this woman. We have had dealings with her in the past.

_Chola._

CHOLA'S STORY

"Kristov did this to you?"

"His goons. They came for me yesterday. The buyer for the Faberge eggs you stole got careless and bragged about what he had. Word got back to Kristov. It didn't take much to give me up."

John applies a bandage to her nose. The pretty nose he warned her not to ruin. She didn't listen; it is broken and bloody.

"How's that feel?"

"How'd you think it feels?"

The worst damage is to the fingernails on her left hand, three of which have been removed. By force.

"How did you escape?" Sarah Connor demands.

"Broke my bonds and climbed out the window while his goons took a break to watch a soccer match on TV."

"Why come here? If you want money we don't have much."

Chola shakes her head, wincing at the pain this movement brings. "I want you to take care of Kristov."

"We're not in the assasination business," John tells her, glancing briefly in my direction. I say nothing. I hold my tongue. Not literally of course; that makes me look foolish.

"Then next time he catches up with me I'll spill my guts. About you. About her. I won't have a choice."

Once she is patched up and the bleeding staunched, Chola is sent up to my room with two percodans and orders to rest. She complies meekly. The stuffing has certainly been knocked out of her. In more ways than one.

"What do we do?" John asks.

"We don't have too many options. She won't stand another going over."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning we pay Kristov a visit. Cameron and I. He's a business man not a psychopath. We tell him to back off or else."

"Or else - what?"

Sarah Connor nods in my direction. "We unleash the Tin Miss."

I smile. I like to be unleashed.

BEL AIR

John, his mother, Snowy and I are in the SUV. Chola remains at home recuperating. She wished us luck.

Opposite is the apartment building where billionaire Oleg Kristov occupies the top two floors. It was here I broke in and stole the Faberge eggs, part of the deal necessary for Chola to tell us who was pursuing us.

Snowy is trembling; he senses danger in the air. I stroke his neck.

"We will be fine," I assure him.

_"Woof?"_

"Yes, I promise."

Sarah Connor and I exit the SUV. I am wearing mirrored RayBan sunglasses. I rarely get to wear them because they make me look menacing. Me, menacing? I'm a pussycat. This is another joke.

We enter the lobby. The two guards look up from their desk. They are Ferrigno big but not green. No. Tan and muscular, their white shirts straining to contain the bulk beneath.

"Can I help you ladies?"

"We're here to see Kristov," Sarah Connor informs him.

"That's _Mister _Kristov. And he doesn't see anyone without an appointment."

"Oh I think he'll see us."

"And why's that?"

"We're the ones who stole his Faberge eggs."

Guns are drawn. The lobby goes into lockdown. One of the men talks on the phone, presumably alerting the penthouse to our arrival.

"Okay, you can go up. Gotta search you both first."

The bodysearch is brief yet thorough. Any hidden weapons would've been discovered instantly. We are waved toward the elevator, the private one that services the penthouse suite alone.

One of the men accompanies us up. Sarah Connor quips, "No muzak? They play muzak in the Bloomingdales elevators."

"This ain't Bloomingdales, lady. And I'd cut out the wisecracks when you meet Dmitri. He ain't known for his sense of humour."

The doors open. A man awaits us. Tall, average build, short cropped hair. A smart three piece suit. The humourless Dmitri perhaps.

"You searched them?" he asks in heavily accented english.

"Yessir. They're clean."

"No one in or out. Understand?"

"Yessir!"

Dmitri motions us ahead of him. We comply and are led into a large sitting room, furnished in white. White furniture. White carpet. White walls. It is like a snowscene only without the snow. Or the cold.

A short, overweight man comes out of an adjoining room. Oleg Kristov. He is wearing a silk brocade dressing gown and slippers. He as a bald head and a chubby face.

"Sarah! Cameron! Welcome! May I get you anything? I stock the finest wines the world has to offer."

"You know us?"

"But of course! I see you've met Dmitri. I advise you not to try anything foolish. He is ex-KGB. A walking weapon - in his own words."

Dmitri, the ex-KGB walking weapon, crosses the room until he is just inches from my face. My nasal sensors detect his last drink: vodka. With a lime twist.

"I empitied a full clip into you," he says in thickily accented Russian. "Frag rounds. I saw them penetrate your body. You should be mincemeat."

I make no reply. It should be obvious even to the dullest observer I am not mincemeat.

"Then I personally cut the rope you were dangling from. I watched you fall twelve stories and land on a vehicle parked at the kerb, completely destroying it. Yet you walked away. How?"

"If I told you I would have to kill you."

"Ha! Did you hear that, Dmitri?" Kristov chortles. "She say if she tell you she have to kill you!"

Dmitri smiles a mirthless smile. "I heard what she said." He takes a step back but his eyes never leave me. He seems curious rather than antagonistic. One warrior respecting another perhaps.

"We're here to tell you to lay off Chola," Sarah Connor says. "You're dealing with us now, not torturing that girl."

"Torture? Who said anything about torture? She came to me of her own free will."

But...you pulled her fingernails out. Or your goons did."

"Foolish woman! She did that to herself. She insisted her supposed injuries had to look real enough or you would never agree to help her."

"She did it to herself?"

"Extreme, I admit. But you're here nonetheless, just as she promised.

Sarah Connor lips make a thin line. "She set us up. That bitch!"

"And she will be well rewarded. Are you sure you won't have that drink?"

"But what possible use could you have for us? Are you still bearing a grudge because someone outwitted your security?"

"A grudge? _Niet_. Chola brought me a business proposition. Some very important people are interested in you." Kristov claps his hands. "Gentlemen? Perhaps you would care to take it from here?"

A man and a woman enter the room from a side door, dressed in smart business suits..My facial recognition software pings.

_NSA Agent Foster_

_NSA Agent Duffy_

Agent Foster raises a gun to sholder height and pulls the trigger.

Instead of bullets two metallic darts emerge from the barrel and strike me in the chest.

WARNING

VOLTAGE OVERLOAD

Is all I know for sometime.

NSA SAFE HOUSE

I wake. Or rather reboot. I see bars. And through these bars more bars. Then Sarah Connor. She is wearing an orange jumpsuit. So am. When did I change? And what was I thinking?

"Don't touch the bars," she warns. "Yours are electrified. Do you know where we are?"

"Culver City."

"I didn't think it was far." She rattles the bars impotently. "Chola double-crossed us and Kristov sold us out to the NSA. I don't know what kind of deal you offer a billionaire but it was obviously enough."

"My HUD tells me two hours have passed that I have no recollection of. Please explain."

"You were hooked up to some sort of generator. Kept you out. It means they know or suspect what you are."

A man descends the steps. Agent Foster.

"So, our clockwork doll is awake."

Clockwork? I play along. "Put your head on my chest and listen to me tick."

He smiles. "Oh we're going to do more than that. Much more."

A woman appears at the head of the stairs. Agent Duffy.

"Uh - sir. Washington called. An extraction team is on the ground at Edwards. They'll be here before nightfall. Level three containment protocols to be observed."

"Thank you, Karen."

Duffy turns to leave. A small white object moving fast dodges through her legs and down the stairs.

_Snowy!_

Snowy weaves past a startled Agent Foster. He drops something through the bars of Sarah Connor's cell. She quickly covers it with her foot. Then he is off back up the stairs pursued by Foster who draws his gun and exits. We hear two gunshots and a dog's yelp.

_Two gunshots._

_A dog's yelp._

Agent Foster has shot Snowy.

Agent Foster has killed Snowy.

"CAMERON! NO! DON'T TOUCH THE BARS!"

I stop myself just in time.

She says, "It's a message from John, I think."

She picks up the tightly rolled piece of paper Snowy dropped. "Yes! He says he's at the electricity substation for this block. We have to be ready; there's a backup generator. He'll blow it up at six. They took my watch. What's the time?"

I consult my HUD. "Five-forty five."

"Fifteen minutes."

We wait in silence. Then: "I'm sorry about your dog."

"You never liked him."

"That's not true."

"You were always mean to him."

"No, I was strict. Never mean. Someone had to be the way you two doted on him. He had you eating out of his hands."

"Snowy had paws not hands."

"It's an exp-. Doesn't matter."

"I loved Snowy."

I wait for the inevitable roll of the eyes, the snide putdown that as a machine I can never truly know love.

It never comes.

She knows I speak the truth.

The clock ticks down.

_5-4-3-2-1-0..._Nothing happens. Has something gone wrong? Has John been captured before he could set off the explosion?

The lights go out.

Sarah Connor pulls back the cell door freeing herself as the electronic locks fail. I wrench my door off its hinges and toss it aside.

The lights flicker and come back on.

Neither Foster nor Duffy appear in the doorway. We do.

"Find and disable them. No killing," Sarah Connor whispers.

I find Agent Foster in his converted office. He looks up from his desk, draws his taser pistol almost immediately. Impressive speed.

The metallic darts once more fly towards me. I demonstrate some impressive speed of my own and step aside so the darts impact harmlessly on the door behind. Next a service pistol is drawn. Three bullets strike my chest. No lasting damage. But this is getting old.

Time for a little damage of my own.

I shove the desk so that it pins Agent Foster against the wall. He collapses across it with both legs broken. He seems sufficiently disabled judging by his groans.

I find John's mother in another office. She has blood on her face. A wooden chair is in pieces on the floor. So is Agent Duffy, although she is still in one piece.

"Problems?"

"She knew kung-fu. The chair seemed the simplest option."

"Brute force often is."

We exit the building. The SUV awaits. Sarah Connor climbs in the front with John, I in the back. Next to a familiar white object with a lolling pink tongue.

"Snowy!"

_"Woof!"_

"I hug him and run my fingers through his fur checking for bullet holes. There are none. Against all odds he is alive and well.

"Cam, are you okay?" John asks.

"Yes, my gunshot wounds will quickly heal."

"It's not that. It's just...well...you're crying."

I check my optical sensors. He is correct. They are leaking fluid. Odd. They not supposed to do this.

Two gunshots suddenly hit the vehicle. I look behind. Agent Foster has managed to drag himself out the door to aim his pistol at us.

"Drive!"

John needs no second invitation. It is fortunate the bullets hit nothing important like the fuel tank.

The SUV veers off course. Did I speak too soon?

"John! Omigod, you're hit"

John slumps against the steering wheel. The back of his shirt is red with blood.

"Get him out on the sidewalk! Quickly! We need to stop the bleeding."

There is an exit wound in the middle of his chest. Bad. Very bad. He looks up at me with shocked, frightened eyes.

"Cam..?"

He dies in my arms.

John Connor is dead.

John Connor, Mankind's best and only hope, is dead.

THE LAZARUS OPTION

It was the luckiest of shots. It was the unluckiest of shots. A chance in a million. A billion.

_And it is all my fault._

By eluding the NSA's clutches I have undone Kate Brewster and the Anderson terminator's prophecy that I would become the mind of Skynet.

Out of the frying pan into the fire, is a human expression that springs to mind.

I have allowed Skynet to triumph by suborning my true nature: I exist to terminate. By not terminating Agent Foster when I had the opportunity, by granting him mercy, I have altered history.

_"Something you have done precipitates our ultimate victory."_

The words of the Anderson terminator. Prophetic, it seems.

John taught me that all living things have value and existence must be preserved at all costs.

_And I believed him._

It was my one mistake. One I must now rectify.

New Mexico.

I park the Porsche beneath the shade of a eucalyptus tree. The furnace heat of noon in New Mexico assails me as I step out. So much for the shade.

I walk into the Bank of America, New Mexico branch. Established 1941, though the original building has been extensively remodeled over the years. The a/c banishes the heat instantly; humans do enjoy their creature comforts.

I approach one of the client desks. A blonde woman looks up and smiles in greeting. The nametag on her jacket's right lapel suggests her name is Angela. I have no reason to believe she is trying to deceive me or anyone else.

"May I help you?"

"I wish to access my safe deposit box."

"Certainly, Miss..?"

"Phillips. Cameron Phillips."

"Certainly, Miss Phillips. Do you have your key and some form of ID?"

I produce both. She inspects my photo ID. The picture is old but I look the same now as then. Not a day older. Not one minute. One of the advantages of being a machine.

"Thank you, that's all in order." She taps instructions into her computer. Information is displayed on the screen. "I see you've had this box in our care since 1941, when the bank was built. According to our records the account was opened by a...Cameron Phillips. Oh. A relative presumably?"

"My grandmother," I lie. Adding, "I miss bobbysox. And Big Bands."

Angela smiles tentatively. "Well, if you'll come with me..."

Angela leads me downstairs to the basement vault. She inserts my key and the bank's duplicate into a wall of safe deposit boxes. She withdraws the box within and carries it to a curtained booth, grunting slightly with the effort. The box is heavy. Or she is weak. Possibly both.

Once she departs I open the box and remove the attache case inside. The leather is cracked and faded with age. I pop the locks and check the contents. All seems to be well. All must be well if my plan is to succeed.

HOME

When I enter the safe house Sarah Connor is still slumped on the sofa in much the same position as when I left two days previously. Her hair is lank and greasy and her clothes apparently unchanged. She is surrounded by empty takeaway boxes and liquor bottles. She hasn't washed recently and is starting to smell.

"Where have you been?" she demands.

"Errand."

"I thought you'd left for good. Wouldn't blame you. There's nothing for you here. For either of us. John's dead. It's over. It's all over. We've failed. They've won."

I look around. Someone is missing. "Where is Snowy?"

"Locked in your room. His barking was driving me crazy. Oh don't look at me like that! I threw some food and water in with him."

I decide Snowy's welfare is not an immediate priority. I begin to unpack the attache case, laying the components out on the floor.

Sarah Connor sits up, detritus from the food cartons falling from her dishevelled clothing. "Is that what I think it is?"

"I don't know. What do you think it is?"

"A time machine, like the one in the bank vault."

"Then yes, it is what you think it is."

"You've got a plan, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"You can bring John back to life?"

"No. In this timeline John will always be dead. I cannot change that."

She slumps back on the sofa. "Then what's the point?"

"I may be able to travel back and prevent his death from occuring, creating a branching timeline."

"Do I come with you?"

"No."

"Why? There's nothing for me here."

"On the contrary. You have an important task to perform."

"What?"

"Isn't it obvious?"

"Not to me."

"You must take care of Snowy."

THE FUTURE. PART TWO

All Thing Must Pass.

This is a Hindu saying meant to convey the transitory nature of life, its lack of permanance, the inevitable slide into entropy.

All things must indeed pass.

Some more than once.

Humans are born, live, grow old, then die. This is the way of life. All that remains is the slow disintegration back to the component atoms. Even then it is not over. Nothing is ever truly over. The molecules recombine with other molecules to form plants or other animals, soil or the ocean, even the very air they once breathed. This process has occurred from the moment the planet was born out of chaos and will continue until it is detroyed by an aging, swollen sun, the atoms reseeding the void to become - what? I don't know. In time another world possibly. And it all begins again...

It is possible to intervene, to break this cycle. Mold it and shape it to your own design. If you have the means.

I have the means.

Does this make me a God?

No. I am a cyborg. Model TOK-715. Made to ressemble a teenage girl.

_But I am much more than that._

I am Cameron Baum.

I am about to alter history.

Again.

_And so it goes..._

Chola double-crosses us.

_And so it goes..._

Oleg Kristov sells us out to the NSA.

_And so it goes..._

I watch as the black, nondescript van pulls up outside the NSA safe house and disgorges its cargo. Me. And a handcuffed Sarah Connor.

I watch as as I am carried in on a gurney, my CPU disabled by a constant stream of high-voltage electricity.

I watch as John drives by in the SUV searching for the power substation he intends to sabotage.

I watch as Snowy races out of the house, narrowly avoiding being shot.

I can watch no longer. Time for action.

I kick open the safehouse door and shoot Agent Foster three times in the chest, on this occasion affording him no mercy. Mercy comes at too high a cost. If he knew what was at stake perhaps he would not mind dying in the cause. He is not an evil man; merely misguided. And a threat.

Agent Duffy appears in the doorway of her office clutching a styrofoam cup of coffee. I shoot her once in the head. She drops the styrofoam cup, spilling the coffee on the floor along with her blood. It will likely stain. It is of no consequence to either of us.

Down the stairs to the cells in the basement. Myself and Sarah Connor look round as I approach.

"Cameron? There are two of you? How...?"

I explain the sequence of events in as few words as necessary. I watch myself nod as I mention the bank vault in New Mexico. I knew I would understand. I am very bright. And pretty. Even in a vile orange jumpsuit._ So _not my colour.

The lights go out. John has just blown up the power substation. Sarah Connor slides her cell door open; I wrench mine from its hinches. The light comes back on. The bars of my newly vacated cell hum like so many angry wasps.

"What do we do now?" Sarah Connor asks.

"Leave."

_I watch as John embraces his mother._

_I watch as I climb in the backseat and exclaim 'Snowy!' the tears staining_

_my cheeks. I have never looked more human._

I join them in the SUV, answering all of John's inevitable questions. We have time now. A new timeline, one where Agent Foster doesn't crawl out the door and fire the fatal shots.

He is pale, shocked by the revelation of his death and subsequent resurrection.

"What now?"

"We make some new memories."

HOME

"I am Cameron prime," I explain for John's benefit.

"And I am Cameron subprime," my doppelganger explains standing side by side.

"Catchy."

"We thought so."

"I have seniority since I am the one who instigated Operation Lazarus."

"I would've done the same," Cameron subprime insists.

"I know you would."

"Because I am you."

"And you are me."

"So you had a spare time gadget?" John asks.

"For emergencies."

"Why didn't you use it when Derek was killed? Or Riley?"

"They were not vital to the war effort."

"Derek was pretty important."

"Important but not vital."

John nods, reluctantly accepting my appraisal of a man he liked and admired.

"What do we do now?"

"We have some thoughts on that. We thought you might like to join us in bed."

John grins. "I'm listening."

"We hope you will want to do more than listen."

We needn't have worried.

He does.

WEDNESDAY

"Lately it seems all we do is bury stuff in the desert."

John's comment is an exaggeration but I let it pass. I know what he means. First the Whitford terminator. Then Kate Brewster.

Now it is the turn of Cameron subprime, who lies at the bottom of a pit I have just excavated. Her chip has been removed and her body covered with a shroud. I don't want soil getting in my/her hair.

"Remind me again why we can't keep her activated."

"There cannot be two of me. We are exactly alike. It would create confusion and suspicion."

"She could be your long lost sister from Des Moines."

"I don't have a long lost sister from Des Moines. Or anywhere else for that matter."

"At least you have a ready source of spare parts if you get damaged."

"Yes."

"I liked Cameron subprime."

"Better than me?"

"She is you, doofus. Just a few days memories different."

Snowy bounds up barking excitedly. He has been exploring the desert and discovered a lizard. He wants to know if it is good to eat.

"Possibly," I tell him. "Or possibly it will find you good to eat."

Snowy decides to live and let live. A prudent choice.

"I don't think we should tell mom about us," says John, taking me in his arms.

"She knows about us."

"The new intimate us."

"Oh."

"Let's keep it on the downlow."

"Not the uphigh."

"Ri-ght..."

He kisses me. I kiss him back._ Quid pro quo_.

"We'll have to be discreet."

"I can be discreet."

_kiss_

"And careful."

"I can be careful."

_kiss_

"Not just mom. Alys and Jerold."

"No problemo."

John smiles. "Is this what it's like with Future John?"

"No."

"No?"

"He has a beard."

"I'll have to remember to grow one."

"I'll remind you."

"Yeah."

"I require a favour," I inform John after the soil completely covers my doppelganger. "I need to borrow the Porsche."

"Because..?"

"No questions asked."

"Oh one of those favours."

"Yes, one of those."

"Okay, fine."

"You trust me?"

"You saved my life, didn't you. I think the Porsche is in safe hands."

"Thank you."

I kiss him on the lips again. He kisses me back tenderly. It is becoming a habit. A nice habit. Snowy watches then raises his right paw to cover his eyes. He hates the slushy stuff.

THURSDAY

I am in pursuit. My quarry is clever and resourceful. So am I. My quarry requires sleep. I don't. It is an advantage that makes all the difference.

A motel. A place for transient humans to sleep. Just off the freeway close to the Mexican border. I park in the lot.

Snowy is dozing on the seat beside me. He looks up as I engage the handbrake.

"Stay here. I'll be back."

A large illuminated sign welcomes me as I approach the main building.

MODESTO MOTEL

WELCOMES WEARY TRAVELLERS

XX ETERTAINMENT CHANNELS IN EVERY CHALET

XX? Presumably the Roman numerals for twenty. It doesn't seem that many channels. Our TV in OC can receive ten times that amount.

I enter the lobby. It is 2.23 in the morning. The Night Shift is on duty.

The clerk, a young spotty youth looks up from his desk, images reflecting from the TV screen he is watching onto his eyeglass lenses. Glimpses of naked, enjoined humans.

_Oh. That XX._

"Help you, miss?"

"I believe so."

"Chalets are one-ten a night. Cash or plastic. No cheques. Payable upfront. The entertainment..." he glances at the screen. "...is extra. There's a card slot in the room."

"I am looking for someone."

I hand him a photograph of my quarry. And five one hundred dollar bills. This is the easy way. There is also a hard way. The choice is his. I am easy both ways. Like the figures cavorting on the screen.

He glances at the picture, nods and pockets the cash. He has chosen the easy way. Good. For him.

"Yeah, I seen her. Chalet 13. It's the cleanest one 'cause some folk are superstitious and won't book it."

I return to the door.

"Wait."

I turn slowly. Surely not the hard way? He was doing so well.

"She's not alone. She's with a man."

"Not a problem."

He smiles and winks for some reason.

Chalet 13 is off the main hub. The windows are dark. The door is locked. Not for long.

Two figures alseep on the bed. The closet to me, a naked male, rises at the noise of my entrance. He is powerfully built with tattoos down both arms. He swings a punch at me.

It is a good punch. A great one even. Thrown with balance and power and precision. Were I human my jaw would most likely be broken.

_I am not human. _

The man screams as his fist impacts my coltan skull and the bones fracture. The screams are loud. Too loud. Someone might hear and call the police. I slap the side of his head. He collapses to the floor, writhes briefly then lies still.

The remaining figure in the bed pulls the sheet to her chin and turns on the bedside lamp.

_Chola._

"Is Cooper dead?" she asks.

"Cooper?"

She indicates the tattooed man on the floor.

"Most likely. He has sustained serious head trauma."

She nods. "He's supposed to be some amazing martial arts expert. It's the only reason he's here. He's lousy in bed."

"He's not so hot on the floor either."

"I thought you were after me."

"Your continued existence is a potential threat to John Connor. You have proven untrustworthy. You only have yourself to blame."

"So I cut a deal. I had no choice. Kristov really was looking to kill me."

"You think I won't?"

"I think the boy and his mother won't like it if you do."

"You're correct." A trace of a smile appears on her face. "Which is why they don't know." The smile vanishes.

"I have money. Name your price."

"I have no price. We spoke of this."

"I have several keys of pure cocaine hidden in my car. Street value into the millions. It's yours."

"I don't require stimulents."

"There must be something I can tempt you with?"

She drops the bedsheet, exposing firm dark-nippled breasts.

"I have my own, thank you."

I draw my pistol and shoot her once in the head which jerks back slightly while her eyes remain open. She no longer sees me or the Motel chalet. Possibly she sees Heaven or Hell, the twin realms humans suspect await them at the instant of death. If so she gives no sign and I do not bother to ask. What would be the point?

On a table by the door is a pizza box. Inside several uneaten slices. I take them with me for Snowy. I spoil that dog.

HOMEWARD

Snowy looks up as I slide behind the wheel.

_"Woof?"_

"Everything went to plan, thank you for asking. Here, I brought you this."

I open my hand revealing the pizza slices. His tail wags briskly as he eats them off my palm, his tongue coarse and wet against my skin sensors.

I start the engine. "Do you need to attend to any doggie business?"

Snowy shakes his head, no.

"Are you sure? You know what happened earlier."

What happened earlier was that Snowy indicated to me he needed to urinate. I was unwilling to stop on the freeway and dangled him out of the Porsche by the scruff of his neck, forcing him to take a whizz on the fly while travelling at 160 mph. He found it an unpleasant experience. As did the family in the vehicle behind who felt the full force of Snowy's emptying bladder. It was unfortunate they were driving a convertible.

We hit the Interstate heading north, the engine a throaty roar at my back. Late night traffic flows freely on the Interstate's many lanes. Humans in transit, restless, forever on the move. Modern day nomads who have swapped horses and packmules for the internal combustion engine.

South of San Diego I weave past a massive 18 wheeler flatbed truck hauling pigiron for the smelters in the north. The unseen driver blares his airhorn at me, either as a mark of respect for my driving skills or an aural curse for my impudence.

We have a long way yet to travel. Snowy hunkers down for the journey, curling into a tight furry ball next to me. John is far away in Los Angeles.

_John. My once and only love. _

_John. My reason for existing._

John.

I am Cameron Baum.

This has been my story.

**-OOO-**

**Cameron's musing on life and the universe is indebted to Peter Adolphson, a czech writer who postulates all existence is simply matter flowing seamlessly from one state to another, without beginning or end. Bit like the Arsenal midfield then.**

**Final chapter? I'll probably change my mind in a few weeks...**

**PJ**

**AUGUST 2010**


	34. Chapter thirtyfour

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

FRIDAY

I stride into the crowded police station and immediately find myself surrounded by police officers, all armed and extremely dangerous.

And who ignore me completely.

This is not unexpected.

I am presently in disguise. I am wearing the uniform of a CHiP - California Highway Patrolman - complete with motorcycle boots, helmet and mirrored sunglasses.

I have chosen one of the busiest precincts in South LA, where crime is commonplace as black, latinos and white criminal elements deal drugs and vie for supremacy on these meanest of streets. There are certainly many of these elements here. The place is packed with people either being arrested, interviewed, escorted to jail or simply waiting to file a complaint with one of the over-worked officers. It is noisy and chaotic. Perfect cover.

Everyone is too busy to notice me as I thread my way through to the rear offices. I need to find an empty one with a working computer terminal.

The office of Detective Ray Martinez appears to be a prime candidate. It is empty so I open the door and slip quietly inside.

I take a USB stick from my pocket and fit it to a spare port on the Dell desktop computer. A virus of my own devising is now rapidly downloading and will soon infect the entire LAPD mainframe. This has very strong firewalls and security protocols, but they will be no match for my virus. I didn't come all this way just to jerk around. Or do I mean jerking off? I will check with John later. I like to keep my database of human expressions accurate.

I remove the stick and prepare to leave when the door opens behind me.

"Hey, you're not supposed to be in here," comes a gruff male voice. "What's going on?"

"I brought the case files Ray requested," I lie. "He told me he wanted them A-SAP." The interloper is another cop, suspicious but his hands have not yet strayed towards the pistol at his hip. It may be possible to spare his life. If he cooperates and believes my lies.

"Oh. Well, Ray's on his break. Try the donut place on Vine. Ray's got a sweet tooth."

I smile. "Don't we all?"

"Ain't that the truth!" He rubs his oversize stomach ruefully. "Listen, you Chippies aren't allowed back here uninvited. Next time check at the desk. We can't let every Tom, Dick and Harry in off the street."

"If I meet Tom, Dick or Harry I will inform them of this rule."

He laughs and stands aside to let me pass. I have said something amusing it seems. Possibly a joke. The punchline is he gets to live.

MAD ELLIE

I leave the precinct the way I came in, unnoticed and unremarked. I walk three blocks then open the passenger door of a white Honda compact parked at the kerb.

Ellie Ryan is slumped down behind the steering wheel. She seems nervous, skittish even.

"Finally! I was getting worried."

"I was in no danger."

"Not you - _me! _This is a seriously badass neighbourhood. It's full of gangstas."

"Gangsters?" It seems a quaint, 1920s expression.

"Gangstas. Look, here's one now!"

A tubby black woman is walking towards us pushing a pram.

"She seems harmless," I suggest.

"Ya think? She probably deals drugs and has an Uzi hidden in the pram. They do, you know. You see it on TV. This place is a warzone."

The woman passes us by without a sideways glance.

"It appears you were mistaken."

"You know what they call white people here? The victim. Can we go now? I'm starting to get seriously freaked out."

Ellie relaxes once we are on the freeway and heading west towards more prosperous neighbourhoods, ones that presumably don't harbour gangstas with prams.

"Did everything go okay?"

"Affirmative."

"So the costume fooled them?"

"Apparently so."

"Wasn't it a great idea of mine?"

I concede she performed well. It was Ellie's idea to purchase a CHiP uniform from a Hollywood costumier. I had originally intended to steal one from a genuine Highway Patrolman and assume their identity. This way is better. Less bloodshed. I am learning restraint. And to trust others.

"So I did you a solid?"

"Soild?"

"A favour. That's what a solid is, a favour."

"Yes, you did me a solid."

Ellie has been an useful partner in crime. This was not a task I could safely divulge to John or his mother. They might not have been so keen permitting me to invade a police precinct and attempt to hack into the entire LAPD mainframe. Sometimes it is necessary to act on my own iniative. Future John granted me this licence: to do everything in my power to serve and protect his mother and his younger self. I will not fail him.

"So...I was thinking maybe you'd do me a solid in return?"

"What d'you have in mind?"

"There's a girl at school, Ren Taylor."

I nod. She is on my database. Lauren 'Ren' Taylor. We share science class. She tried out for soccer squad but could not trap a ball sufficiently well to meet Ramona's exacting requirements.

"What about her?"

"I want her whacked."

"You wish me to hit her?"

"I want you to kill her."

"Why?"

Ellie's hands squirm on the wheel. "She...bugs me."

"No. That is insufficient reason to terminate someone."

"Okay, okay. She's dating Michael Carver."

"The boy you like?"

"No! God, no! Why d'you say that?"

"Because you draw his likeness constantly. You flashed him a boob once. You stare at him frequently in science class and in the corridors when you pass."

"Okay, maybe I like him just a teeny-tiny bit. Nothing's gonna happen if that skank Ren Taylor's got her claws into him. Just chow down on her neck and drain the bitch dry."

"No."

Ellie sighs with disappointment. "Why is it too much to ask? I saw what you did to that girl Caroline when she got too close to your boyfriend. You bashed her brains in with a soccer ball."

"That was an accident."

"Oh puh-leese. I was there. You deliberately took her out. Did you know the x-ray she had done showed a fluid build up on her brain? The hospital shaved her hair so they could drain it off. She was the prettiest girl in school and now she looks like shit."

I stay silent. I did not know this. I was too preoccupied maintaining the correct timelines and returning John to life to bother monitoring school gossip.

"If anyone thought you did that on purpose," Ellie continues in a soft, wheedling voice. "You might get in a lot of trouble..."

I know a threat when I hear it. I am hearing one now.

I slide my hand across until it is resting on her throat. I begin to squeeze. Ellie's breathing quickens as she realises what is happening. The Honda swerves slightly in its lane. My other hand steadies the wheel.

"It would be unwise of you to attempt to blackmail me. There will be consequences."

"No! I'm sorry!" she gasps as her airway constricts. "I didn't mean it! Please!"

I slowly slacken my grip. "You did me a soild. Now I will do you one in return. I will spare your life."

"Thank you. Oh thank you, sweet demon mistress!"

HOME

A chastened Ellie drops me off the customary three blocks shy of the safe house. I walk the rest of the way still in costume. My leather boot heels make a satisfying crunching sound as they pound the sidewalk. People clear out of my way believing I am a real cop. Respect, baby.

Jerold Ramirez is in his front yard working on the engine of his VW Bug which seems to be malfunctioning again. It is probably the solenoid. A recurrent problem in these models. He looks up at me and smiles quizzically.

"Hey Cam. What you been up to?"

"I did a solid."

"Yeah? Good for you. Kinda blocked up myself. Alys says I need more roughage in my diet." He frowns. "What's with the get up? Fancy dress contest?"

This seems as good a reason as any for what I am wearing.

"Yes," I confirm. "I won second prize."

"Oh. Ah - congratulations."

"Thank you."

I go inside the house. John and his mother aren't home. They are most likely on a supermarket run. A note on the kitchen table affirms this. It is thoughtful of John to let me know in this manner so that I won't worry. Or run amok.

I find Snowy asleep on the bed in my attic room. He looks up hopefully as I enter then hunkers down again when he sees I have no food nor inclination to scratch him behind his ears in the manner he so enjoys. He is a slave to sensations.

I boot up my laptop computer. A new icon has appeared on my desktop. I click on it.

The entire database of the LAPD opens up before me. Several terabytes of data, constantly being added to in realtime.

_Yowza._

I type in a search request for John and discover he is dead. This is excellent news.

I type in a search request for myself and discover I am also dead. Even better.

According to the report we both perished in the high school fire. It seems the NSA did not share information of our survival with another government agency.

I check out NSA agents Foster and Duffy whom I terminated scant days ago. Neither death made the national media. Nor are they on the LAPD database. The NSA are keeping the event under wraps. Interesting.

There is little on the investigation into Chola's murder. I terminated her and the bodyguard she travelled with in a motel close to the Mexico border. It is being handled by the San Diego Police. There is one small file: the SDPD requesting information on Chola's last known business contacts dated three days ago.

So far so good.

My luck runs out the moment I search for Lars Anderson.

Sarah Connor is implicated in his murder.

I access all relevant files. It appears she left blood evidence behind, most likely from the cut she sustained on her forehead during the fight. Forensics took a sample swab and matched it to her DNA profile already on file. Four detectives are currently working the case. I review their case notes. So far they have nothing much to go on apart from the obvious DNA link which is leading them precisely nowhere. Nevertheless it is a development I will have to bring to the attention of John. This could have wider reaching implications for us all.

-0-

John and his mother arrive home at 6.14pm. They seem in good spirits. It will be shame to bum them out. I help them unpack the groceries before telling them my news.

"The cut on your head, mom. Dammit! We should've cleaned up better."

Sarah Connor, predictably, takes a different tack.

"Who authorised you to hack into the LAPD computer system?"

"I authorised myself."

"So you're operating outside our control?"

"I am doing what is necessary to protect John Connor."

"Will they discover the virus and realise the system's been compromised?"

"Unlikely. It is a very sophisticated virus for this time period."

"Mom, let's not beat each other up over this," John suggests. "The important thing is you're implicated in a second murder. If the cops release your photograph to the media then we could be in trouble. Jerold and Alys next door will recognise you. So will people at the supermarket."

"And the man who lives at number twenty-eight," I add.

"Why him?"

"He observes you closely when you run past in your jogging outfit. I believe he finds you sexually attractive despite your advanced years and the unlikelihood of your bearing more progeny."

"Gee, thanks."

"You're welcome."

"If the cops do issue a photo will you get a heads up?"

"Yes. Everything they do is known to me."

"Can you intervene? Buy us some time?"

"I can crash the entire LAPD mainframe for several hours."

"Good. It's a start. We need a bolthole if things go bad," John says. "Another safehouse far from anywhere else where you won't be recognised if we have to go to ground."

"Mexico? The mountains?"

"No. Somewhere near to the city. We need to be here if we're going to prevent Judgement Day. There are some small holiday cottages down the coast. Remote and isolated but less than a few hours drive away. That'd be my pick."

"Good idea."

"I'll get right on it."

"So," Sarah Connor says with a wry grin. "The man in number twenty-eight. What's he like?"

"Fat and bald."

She sighs. "Just my luck."

"I believe genetics and a poor diet were more responsible than luck."

NIGHT

I return early from my patrol as is my wont these days. I make my way to John's room, remove my clothing and slip between the sheets. John welcomes me with a kiss.

"You smell smokey tonight."

"There was a bonfire. I decided to investigate."

"A problem?"

"Vagrants attempting to keep warm."

"The night's are turning chilly."

"Winter is coming."

Another kiss, longer this time, with tongues.

"I could shower if my scent offends you?"

"No. You might wake mom."

"We don't want that."

"Definitely not."

"Is it your turn on top or mine?"

"Let's play it by ear."

And this is what we do.

SATURDAY

Over breakfast John announces he has found a possible bolthole, a last redoubt should the worst come to the worst.

"It's a few miles inland from the coast. About thirty minutes from the nearest freeway. Four bedroom house set in ten acres of land. Miles from anywhere. It's available on a long or short lease. I thought Cam and I could motor down and check it out today."

Sarah Connor is agreeable and we set off at ten in the SUV. Snowy accompanies us.

While we are crusing south on the Interstate I decide to give John his present.

"For you."

"An iPhone? Cam, you needn't have. I'm perfectly happy with the disposable ones."

"I have made some modifications you might appreciate."

"Like what?"

"I've written an app that allows you to understand Snowy's barks."

"An app that translates_ dog?"_

I show John how to work it and he speaks to Snowy.

"Hey, boy, you okay back there, enjoying the ride?"

_"Woof, woof!"_

These words appear on the screen:

_snowy happy. thank you, john._

John laughs and shakes his head.

"Where d'you think we're going?"

_"Woof, woof!"_

_wide open spaces, cameron promise. snowy run. snowy loves to run._

"Oh man, this is awesome! Thanks, Cam. Steve Jobs would freak!"

The prospective bolthole is accessed via a long stony private road. At the end is a simple clapboard house painted white. It sits alone in the landscape surrounded by open countryside. The house is empty. John and I peer through the windows. It is unfurnished.

"Shall we break in?"

"No. I think we can see all we need to see from out here. It's remote. Well hidden. Pretty much perfect for our needs."

Snowy starts barking. John consults his iPhone.

_rabbits! snowy spot rabbits! snowy chase rabbits? please?_

John laughs. "Okay. But don't go too far."

Snowy bounds off and is soon lost amid the green rolling fields.

John unfolds a map of the area and studies it. "Nearest house is over that way. Freeway's thirty minutes drive back the way we came. There's a yacht marina five miles west. Maybe we check it out later. If we've really got our backs to the wall that would be a good escape route. You could hotwire a powerboat, couldn't you?"

"Most likely," I agree. "I will have to see it first to be sure."

We find Snowy a long way from the house staring intently at some rabbit holes.

_rabbits! snowy chase? snowy catch? rabbits!_

"Not now, fella, we're gonna go see some boats."

_boats? snowy not understand. explain boats._

"Uh - like automobiles that float on the water."

_snowy not like boats. stay and chase rabbits._

John sighs. "Cam..."

I pick Snowy up and carry him back to the SUV. He complains all the way, including some expletives he has learnt from Sarah Connor. He is such a little pottymouth.

MARINA

The yacht marina is full of boats of all shapes and sizes. Some have furled sailing rigs while others are expensive motor cruisers. All have their transcoms shrouded to keep out the inclement winter weather.

"Looks pretty quiet," John states. "Probably a lot busier in the summer. Let's take a closer look."

We leave Snowy sulking in the car and head down onto the pontoons where the boats are moored. There are no people around to see us.

"Let's take a peep inside."

John lifts the canvas shroud of a largish motor cruiser. He creates a gap which we both climb through.

"Think you can hotwire this?"

I examine the controls. "Yes. A piece of pie."

"Cake. Piece of cake."

I make the necessary alterations to my database.

John explores further. There is a cabin at the prow with a double bed. He sits on it.

"What are we doing now?" I enquire.

"Can't you guess?"

"Give me a clue."

John pulls me to him and begins to unbutton my shirt, revealing my bra. He lifts the cups causing my boobs to spill out.

I require no further clues.

-0-

When we are done John smooths down the bed and we exit the way we came. No one notices a thing. Except Snowy.

_why john and cameron gone long time?_

"Something came up." John smirks for some reason

_cameron smells like john!_

"Oh man, busted by a dog! We definitely won't be telling mom about this gadget," says John. "I wouldn't put it past her to interrogate Snowy."

_snowy go home now?_

"That's right, fella. How about we stop and pick up some Ben & Jerry's on the way?"

_rocky road! rocky road! _

John laughs. "Sure thing, fella."

_snowy love john! snowy love cameron!_

"Right back attcha, boy."

SUNDAY

John has news for us at breakfast.

"That emergency safe house we visited? It's ours. I just arranged a year long lease."

"How?" Sarah Connor demands.

"I contacted the owner by email and told him I'm a writer looking for someplace quiet and secluded to finish my novel. I wired the cash and it's a done deal."

"He wasn't suspicious?"

"I can be pretty persuasive."

"Then I better take a look at this place."

"Great. We'll drive down today. A family outing. Don't get many of those without people trying to kill us."

We arrive at noon. Once the SUV rolls to a stop Snowy bounds out and disappears into the wide open countryside. He is off to chase rabbits no doubt.

"It's certainly remote," Sarah Connor declares looking around.

"Yeah. Let's take a look inside. The owner said there's a spare key under a plant pot."

We find the key and enter the house. Our footsteps echo on the bare floorboards.

"Power?"

"Just needs the main switch turned on."

"Water?"

"Same thing. And there are four bedrooms. Everyone gets a room - even Snowy."

Sarah Connor suggests some improvements to the door locks. I suggest mining the approach road and siting a machine gun turret on the roof. Both ideas are vetoed on the grounds of practicality. Pity. Nothing deters unwelcome visitors like a machine gun turret on the roof.

John is full of plans. You would think his enthusiasm would be infectious but no his mother listens in stony silence.

"Where's the nearest neighbour?" she asks finally.

"Uh - about a mile away, I think."

"You think?"

"Yeah."

"Which direction and who owns it?"

"North and I -_ uh _- don't know."

"You didn't bother to find out, in other words. Sloppy recon, soldier, very sloppy. I thought I taught you better than that."

"Mom-"

"You've had your say, John. Now it's my turn. You think I don't see what's going on here? This isn't about a safe house, a redoubt, an emergency bolthole - whatever you're calling it today. I don't think it ever was, except as an excuse. This is about your independence, wanting a place of your own away from me. There's another girl in your life, isn't there? I've thought so for some time. This place could double as a lovenest, far from my prying eyes."

"Mom, it's not like that!"

"Who is she? Someone from school?"

"There's no one."

"You've been different ever since the NSA breakout."

"Different how?"

"Happier, mostly. More relaxed. This is a good thing, John. I want you to be happy."

"Maybe I'm just glad to be alive."

"Maybe. Alright, you can have this place. It's a done deal anyway, you've seen to that. Visit at weekends. Bring the girl here, if she'll come. Though how will you explain Cameron's presence?"

"I -_ uh _- it's not an issue right now."

"I'm sure you'll think of something. You're a resourceful boy. And I was your age once. I can be over-protective, stifling even. I know. Just take care. The world is depending on you."

John opens his mouth to reply. It appears he is going to argue, to claim none of this is true, that she is mistaken. Then his jaw closes and he stares at the ground. He looks very young suddenly, like a schoolboy caught breaking the rules.

"Thanks, mom," he whispers.

**-000-**

**Didn't think about this fanfic for weeks. When I did the next few chapters popped into my head. Seems the story's not done telling itself. Me, I'm just along for the ride.**

**Hope this strikes a chord. Most teenagers desire independence - just not the bills that accompany it!**

**Dog translation app. Bit of fun. Gives Snowy personality and means I can involve him more.**


	35. Chapter thirtyfive

The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

MONDAY

I find some old nail polish bottles that Sarah Connor has left out for the trash. There is still an amount left in several bottles so I decide to recycle and apply some to my own fingernails. This is a very human trait and will enable me to blend in with the girls at school, many of whom have brightly coloured nails. I will be one of the gang.

"What are you doing?" John asks as he comes down for breakfast. I explain about the nail polish.

"Okay but why are you holding your hands in the air like that?"

"The polish is taking a long time to dry."

"Try blowing on them. Like this." John blows gently on my wet fingernails. "It's how mom gets hers to dry quicker."

"Oh. Thank you for blowing me."

"Any time," John grins.

When my nails are dry I go outside and stow my bag in the Porsche ready for the journey to school. Jerold Ramirez is in his driveway working on the VW Bug. It appears the solenoid is still giving him problems.

"Hey, Cam," he greets me.

"Jerold."

"What you been up too lately?"

"John blew me," I inform him. "It was most helpful as I was wet." I pause. "Is something wrong? Your face is red."

"John - your brother John - blew you?"

"Now he has demonstrated how it is done I will be able to do so myself."

"Oh my God! I can't believe I'm hearing this!"

"It's quite simple. You put your lips together and-"

"I know how it's done! You and your brother must be -_ uh _- very close?"

"We love each other very much. Are you sure you're alright? Your face is still red."

"I might go indoors and take a cold shower."

"A cold shower is very invigorating."

John emerges from the house and sees Jerold.

"Hey, man, you doing okay?"

"Not as okay as you apparently."

"Huh? What's that mean?"

"I was telling Jerold how you helped me earlier," I explain.

"Oh that. No big deal. Something I watched mom do."

"You watched your _mom..._Oh my God! You two are unbelievable! I can't even look at you right now!"

He stomps off inside without saying goodbye.

John frowns. "What's bugging him?"

"I don't think he liked my fingernails."

"Bit harsh. He's not normally that much of a jerk."

"He became agitated when I told him you blew me. Maybe I should let my nails dry naturally?"

John stares at me. "Oh no," he sighs.

"What's wrong?"

"Nothing. A misunderstanding. I'll go explain it to him."

"He's taking a cold shower."

A wry grin. "Maybe I'll wait."

It occurs to me that my command of the nuances of the english language may have left something to be desired. My bad. Truly, being human is not as easy as it looks.

SCIENCE CLASS

Ellie Ryan is calmer today. As I take my seat next to her neither of us mentions what occured in her white Honda a few days before. I am prepared to forgive her clumsy attempt at blackmail. For now.

"That's Ren Taylor, right there," Ellie says, pointing at the girl seated in front of us. "You can tell because she's a complete and utter _skank!"_

Ren Taylor overhears and looks round. She is a slim, attractive girl with brown hair and green eyes. She doesn't share Ellie's taste in kohl eyeliner and black nail varnish. Few people do.

"You talking about me, Ryan?"

"None of your beeswax, Taylor!"

"Weird much?"

"Michael's only dating you out of pity!"

"You'd like to believe that, wouldn't you?"

"It's true!"

"What's your damage? As if we didn't know."

"What's that mean?"

"Bitten anyone lately, Vampira?"

"Don't call me that!"

"Oooh - bite me, Buffy!"

"Buffy's a vampire slayer not a vampire, you idiot!"

"What_-ever_."

Ren Taylor turns her back on us. Ellie seethes.

"I hate her! You really won't kill her for me?"

"You must learn to fight your own battles."

"Maybe I will. She deserves it."

Our assignments are handed out. We must work in pairs to construct a miniature working steam engine from the parts provided. A steam engine? How archaic. Why not a miniature working nuclear power plant? Slightly more of a challenge.

"Oh God," Ellie groans, "we did this last year. I managed to set the table on fire."

"How did you do that?"

"I don't know. If I knew I wouldn't have done it, would I?"

Her logic seems flawed but I let it pass.

The task is simple enough. I assemble the pieces while Ellie doodles a sketch of Ren Taylor with a knife stuck in her head. I don't think this will count towards our final grade.

"Finished."

I light the furnace and the water boils in the tiny boiler which creates steam to operate the pistons. It runs perfectly. James Watt would be proud.

The teacher, Miss Womack, is also impressed.

"Finished already you two? Excellent work! An A for you both. I think that's your first ever A, Eleanor. Congratulations."

"Patronise much," Ellie grumbles as the teacher moves away. "I'd like to do her in too."

"Why?"

"She bugs me. C'mon, wouldn't you like to ice her ass?"

"Just a little," I confess.

Old habits die hard.

LOCKERS

John and I meet up by the lockers. We exchange smiles and a brief kiss. Caroline is also present, stowing books in her locker. Her long blonde hair is gone replaced by a thin sheen of peach fuzz that covers her scalp. She glares in my direction and slams her locker closed. Grudge much? It appears so.

"Who's that girl?" John asks, evidently not recognising her.

"Caroline. The girl who asked you out."

"That's Caroline? Man, she looks different."

"She changed her hairstyle."

"It's a bit extreme."

"Really? I think it suits her."

SAFEHOUSE

John and I drive home from school, load up on supplies and Snowy, then head for the alternative safehouse deep in the countryside.

"Did we forget anything?" John asks.

"That is a contradition in terms," I reply. "If we knew we had forgotten something then it wouldn't be forgotten."

"Very logical, Mr Spock," John grins.

I look around. It is just John, me and Snowy present. No Mr Spock. Another expression, no doubt. I add it to the list.

When we arrive Snowy bounds out of the vehicle and heads for the wide open spaces that surround the house. He is intent on chasing and catching rabbits. So far he has been unsuccessful in this endeavour. He is a city dog and the rabbits here are wily and fleet-footed. But he will persevere. Why wouldn't he? Snowy is a terminator's dog after all.

John concentrates on white-washing the interior walls while I transfer weapons to the basement and fit new doorlocks.

"It's starting to come together." John announces as he finishes painting the final wall. "Now all we need is furniture. Lots of furniture. Got any poker money left?"

"Three quarters of a million dollars."

"Good because I'm tapped out. And my allowance won't run to much more than a sofa cushion." He indicates the living room wall. "We'll hang a flat panel TV over there. Biggest and best we can afford."

"We don't want to miss _American Idol_."

"Damn straight! You know, I think mom was right. I do see this place as more than somewhere to hide out if things go bad. I mean, most people my age are busy going away to college or getting a job and being independent for the first time in their lives. Why should I be any different?"

"Most people aren't John Connor."

"Lucky them." John places his paint roller in a trash bag. "You done fitting the new locks?"

"Yes."

"Good. Let's check them out. Go outside."

I leave the house and stand on the verandah. John locks the door. "Okay, now try and break in."

I give the door a shove. It collapses inwards.

John surveys the wreckage and with a rueful smile states, "I think we're gonna need bigger locks."

SNOWY

John and I sit outside on the rear porch. The rays of the setting sun are just warm enough to be comfortable. For John, that is. I would be comfortable if it was twenty below. And a raging blizzard.

"It's nice here," John announces contentedly. "Maybe too hot in the summer, but in the spring and Fall it'll be paradise."

"The wilderness is a constant in your life. In the future it will be the mountains, fly-fishing in the tarns and streams when the exigencies of War allow."

"Ah right. Fly-fishing. You mentioned that before. How does that work exactly?"

"You show me how it works, remember?"

"How can I remember? It hasn't happened yet."

Wheels within wheels. Causal loops and time paradoxes. Do I end up teaching John the fly-fishing techniques he will one day teach me? I don't know. It is enough to make your brain ache. If I had a brain.

"Still, mom can't deny this is as good a refuge as any. Those government agencies are still after us, especially now they have an inkling of what you are. And then there's Chola. She's still out there."

I say nothing.

"Who knows what she's planning?"

I again say nothing.

John sighs. "You went after her, didn't you?"

"Why d'you say that?"

"Because the Cameron I know would consider her a threat."

"She was a clear and present danger."

"Was?"

_Oops..._

"I'm not mad at you. What's done is done. Will it come back and bite us?"

"I was discrete."

"Did she suffer?"

"No."

"Okay. If mom asks I'll deal with it."

"Agreed."

"It's getting late. We should find Snowy and leave before it gets dark."

Snowy is nowhere to be found.

"Snowy!" John yells. "C'mon, boy, time to vamoose!"

Nothing.

We walk further into the landscape to the place where rabbit burrows scar the green fields.

"Snowy! Come on, fella. No time for games."

Still nothing.

"Where is he? He can't just have disappeared. Snowy! Here, boy!"

_...woof...woof..._

"You hear that?" John checks his iPhone.

_help! snowy trapped underground! frightened!_

"He's stuck down a rabbit hole. Go back to the house and fetch a pickaxe. We might have to dig him out."

"There's no time."

I move to the nearest rabbit scrape and begin removing turf by hand. Soon I locate the main tunnel. Heavy sods of earth fly through the air as I expose more and more of the burrow.

"Cameron, wait! Let's see if we can pinpoint his position."

We listen.

_...woof...woof..._

_help! snowy can't breathe! snowy choking!_

"Over in this direction."

We move fifty yards further east.

"Okay, try here."

I punch my fists into the ground. Another tunnel is located. I systematically rip it apart. I will dig to the centre of the earth if that is what it takes.

"Hang on, boy. We're coming."

Finally there he is. A small white bundle of fur trapped fast by the constricting tunnel walls. I remove the last turf and carefully lift him out and cradle his trembling body. Snowy whimpers in my arms.

John smiles with relief.

"I guess even paradise has its dangers."

**-000-**

**I have no idea why Jerold loses his cool. No idea at all. ;-)**


	36. Chapter thirtysix

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

THURSDAY

John and I are lying side by side on the bed. He is presently using his fingers to touch the soles of my bare feet. This has been going on for three minutes and four seconds. He has not yet explained why he is doing this. Possibly he is searching for my off switch. I do not have one. I must be shutdown via the menu system. Like Windows. How mortifying!

"Can you feel that?"

"Yes," I confirm.

"That?"

Once more I reply in the affirmative.

He sighs. "It's not working."

"What's not working?"

"You're not ticklish."

"Please give explanation for ticklish."

"It's - _uh_ - a cross between laughter and a convulsion. Kate was ticklish."

_Kate Brewster._

"What about Riley?"

"Didn't know her long enough to find out."

"I see. Please try ticklish again."

John tickles my feet. I convulse with laughter.

"Cam, stop. I know you're faking it."

_Busted!_

"How did you know?"

"I just do." He grins ruefully. "Man, I hope that's all you're faking!"

Whatever can he mean?

SCHOOL

Ramona and Coach Gruber are arguing.

They are respectively captain and coach of our school soccer team, curently top of the league of girls soccer teams in the LA area. Both have their own ideas how we can remain there. Very different ideas. And both are stubborn individuals.

"Four at the back," Coach Gruber insists. "That's how all my teams play and I've been coaching soccer since before you were born, young lady."

"And how many titles have you won?" Ramona retorts.

"That's not the point. You have to respect the traditions of the sport."

"But, sir, three at the back gives us greater attacking options, especially with Cameron so awesome in goal."

"Cameron's not infallible. She let in two soft goals against Ventura County."

This is true. We led 5-0 at the time and I followed John's advice to show I wasn't superhuman - even though I am.

"Sir, while you were off sick we had a lot of success playing three at the back and three up front. Me through the middle, Wanda on the left and the Juggster on the right."

"Wait - what's the Juggster?"

"It's Claudia's nickname."

"Because of my chest, coach," the girl named Claudia explains sheepishly. "They just grew and grew. My mom's the same way. I don't mind, really. You should hear what the boys call me."

Coach Gruber's face turns bright red. He is often discomfited by the girls in his charge. He seems to find hormonally challenged girls on the cusp of womanhood slightly intimidating.

"That's enough of that!" he splutters. He gives his whistle a shrill blast. Several girls wince and cover their ears. "Session over! Hit the showers all of you!"

Later, in the girls changing room well out of Coach Gruber's earshot, Ramona vents her frustration to Wanda and me.

"Grubby's totally losing it. Four at the back. That's old school. The modern game is about offense. Brentwood are only a point behind us. And they have a better goal difference. That can cost you the title. It's happened before."

"You need to be careful, girlfriend," Wanda cautions. "You go pushing any more of his buttons he'll kick you off the team."

"He wouldn't dare. I've scored twice as many goals as anyone else. We're top of the table. The best this school's managed before is third ages ago. Grubby retires in two years, I overheard him tell the Principal. He's not gonna jeopardise his one and only shot at being a winner."

"Hey, did you see his face when you called Claudia the Juggster? Man, I thought he was gonna pop a valve!"

"Yeah! It was like that time Maria's shorts split up the seam and her ass dropped out! I suppose he has seen a naked woman before?"

"He's been divorced twice so he must've seen something!"

"Man, imagine him huffing and puffing on top of you. Beyond gross!"

Ramona and Wanda giggle at Coach Gruber's expense. The old are often figures of fun to the young, until they themselves become old then it is not quite so hilarious.

Ramona checks her watch. "Look at the time! I'm gonna miss my bus. Catch you guys later."

She departs. She lives in a crowded tenement in the Projects, the poorest part of town. It is a quirk of fate she handles with quiet stoicism. And a burning desire to escape.

"I hope she doesn't push the Coach too far," Wanda says after her friend has gone. "It'd be a shame if she blew her soccer scholership now when she's so close." She frowns at me. "Hey, Moves, what's going on with your chest?"

I look down. I have just emerged from the showers. My pseudo-flesh sheds water quicker than human flesh. Has she noticed this anomaly?

"A few days ago you had a scar. Now it's completely gone."

My scar. The result of Agent Foster's gunshots fired at close range.

"I heal quickly," I offer.

"I'll say!" Wanda looks me up and down. "Man, you're the whitest white girl I ever did see. You afraid of sunshine?"

"I'm afraid of nothing."

She nods shrewdly. "You know, I believe that. You're a skinny little thing, but I think you're a lot tougher than you look. That crazy goal you scored against Brentwood. The whole length of the pitch it travelled! C'mon, girl, what's your secret? You on some kinda steroids?"

"Trust me," I tell her. "You don't want to know."

EVENING

My cell rings at 4.34 PM. I am home alone. John and his mother are on a supermarket run and have taken Snowy with them. He likes to select his own doggie food. He is such a fusspot.

_"...it's me_..." A whispered voice on the cell. Familiar.

Ellie Ryan.

_"...i'm in trouble. i think i killed someone..."_

"Why do you think that?"

_"...because she's not breathing and there's lots of blood..."_

"She?"

_"...ren taylor. can you come? please. i've no one else_..."

"Where are you?"

_"...back of the 7/11 on belle vue and main. the one that's zoned for demolition..."_

Borrowing the Porsche I arrive in twenty-three minutes. The rush hour traffic is with me.

The 7/11 is empty and boarded up prior to an apartment block being built here. There are two vehicles in the abandoned lot: Ellie's white Honda and a blue Escalade I assume is Ren Taylor's.

She is in the backseat of the Honda. Very dead. Her carotid artery is sliced open. There is a great deal of blood.

"How did this happen?"

"It was an accident," an ashen-faced Ellie insists. "I took your advice to fight my own battles. I called Ren and told her to meet me here. I was gonna warn her off seeing Michael Carver. It hurts so bad imagining those two together, doing stuff..."

"So you killed her."

"No! I used a knife to scare her. But she tried to wrestle it from me. We struggled and...suddenly there's blood everywhere and it just kept pouring out."

"The heart muscle is a very efficient pump."

"What am I going to do?"

"You could call the police and explain."

"No! They won't believe me. A year ago I bit my therapist. I was sent to a place near Fresno. There were bars on the windows and they gave me sedatives so I was sleepy all the time. I'm on probation. I don't want to go back there!"

What to do? I should leave her to her fate. Her life means little to me. Yet if I do she will surely give me up to the police. What she suspects anyway. There would be awkward questions. My new ID will not withstand close scrutiny. Terminate her then? Two bodies and a mystery. A mystery that will inevitably lead to me, Ellie's only friend. I make my decision.

"Get in the car and follow me."

DISPOSAL

We arrive at the emergency safe house at dusk.

"Where are we?"

I ignore her question and hand her a key. "Go inside and shower. You are covered in blood."

Ellie obeys my instructions. I lift Ren Taylor's lifeless body from the Honda and carry it into the woods for burial. Before I do so I remove an article of her clothing. I am formulating a plan. I see it mapped out in my HUD, step by step. With bullet points. I am Word compatible.

I return to the house. Ellie is still showering. I take her clothes and start a bonfire. Evidence to be destroyed. With a hose I wash out the bloody interior of the Honda. Then I remove my blood-stained clothing and add it to the flames, which brighten the encroaching darkness.

Ellie appears in the doorway, a towel wrapped around her torso. Her hair is wet. She looks very young. And scared.

"Where are my clothes?"

"Burned."

"What am I going to wear?"

"Follow me."

I lead her to my room and hand her a pair of jeans and a clean tee. I don fresh clothes myself.

"Shoes?"

I hand her a pair of thong sandals Snowy has mostly not chewed.

"There was so much blood," she tells me with a shudder.

"I thought you liked blood."

"Not like that." Tears roll down her cheeks. "I did it, didn't I? I've become a monster."

"It's what you wanted."

"I thought I'd feel different. More...empowered."

"It takes practise."

"What do we do now?"

"How much do you like Michael Carver?"

"Why? What's he got to do with it?"

"As her bf he will be the prime suspect in her disappearance."

"But Michael didn't do anything!"

"I can make it seem he did."

"Why?"

"Would you rather take the blame?"

A shake of the head.

"Him or you. Which?"

She casts her eyes downwards, her voice when it comes is the merest of whispers.

_"...him..."_

DETOUR

We drive our vehicles back to the city. Ellie makes the turning that will take her home where I have told her to behave as normally as possible. For her that is. Before we left she told me where Michael Carver lives. And the type of automobile he drives: a vintage MG sportscar.

Such a vehicle is parked outside the Carver residence. The streetlights are on but the sidewalk deserted. No one walks in LA. Good.

I take the article of clothing I saved - Ren's blood-stained bra - and hide it under the passenger seat. Michael Carver's life is about to change in ways he cannot imagine.

HOME

Everyone is asleep. Snowy is curled on my bed, his limbs twitch occasionally as he dreams. He claims not to remember his dreams. John is the same way. I do not dream. I don't know if this is a blessing or a curse.

I boot up my computer and access the LAPD mainframe. I wait.

At 2.45 AM Ren Taylor's parents report her missing.

At 3.23 AM a routine patrol discovers the Escalade behind the 7/11. Traces of blood are found on the tarmac.

At 3.31 AM the Escalade is found to belong to Ren Taylor. Detectives Kebbler and Hicks are assigned the case.

At 4.09 AM Kebbler and Hicks interview the Taylors.

At 5.12 AM Michael Carver is woken by Detectives Kebbler and Hicks and interviewed without being formally charged with anything.

At 6.06 AM a forensics team confirms the blood matches Ren Taylor's DNA and is arterial blood, suggesting she was attacked and wounded, possibly fatally.

At 6.54 AM a search of Michael Carver's sportscar reveals the blood-stained bra.

At 7.05 AM Michael Carver is arrested.

At 7.32 AM Snowy wakes up and asks me what I am doing.

"Helping a friend," I tell him.

SATURDAY

John fails to notice the remains of the bonfire when we arrive at the safehouse. He is too intent on getting the last of the furniture installed, including fresh bed linen. We are planning on staying the night.

Snowy bounds off into the countryside to chase rabbits. His premature burial underground has not deterred him, though he has promised not to venture down any rabbit burrows. Unless he loses weight first. That'll be the day.

The living room is now as John wants it. A huge flat panel TV hangs on the wall connected to a Playstation and an expensive sound system. Everything is state of the art. A vast sofa faces this tableau. It is a typical teenager's lair, albeit one with access to a great deal of money. You're welcome, John; what's mine is yours. Now and always.

I fit new doorlocks and strengthen the door frames. They will keep me or one of my kind at bay for approximately thirty-two seconds. Sufficient time for those inside to realise what confronts them and to respond accordingly. Run would be my advice.

SHOWER

John and I are showering. Together. The hot water from the shower head cascades over our bodies. John is presently washing my back with a soapy sponge. I have noted that he spends less time washing my back than he does my front. I don't know why this is the case.

"This is nice," he says, "not having to hide or rush things. We could even lounge around naked if we wanted."

"Snowy wouldn't approve. He's very prudish."

"He can talk! I don't see him wearing pants."

Snowy in pants. What a struggle that would be.

"Remember that time you joined me in the shower and I walked out in a huff?"

"Vividly." I reply.

"What an idiot I was!"

"You are never an idiot, John. You were seeing Kate Brewster at the time."

"Yeah. Poor Kate. I wonder what she's doing now?"

"One Kate Brewster is rotting in the ground. The other is on the east coast studying to become a vet."

"I wonder if she ever thinks of me?"

"I hope not."

He smiles. "Jealous much?"

"Yes, jealous very much."

He kisses the top of my head. "Turn around and let me wash your front."

"You have already washed my front," I point out.

"I like to be thorough."

NIGHT

I lie by John's side in bed until he falls asleep, then I slip out of the covers, walk downstairs and go outside. It is night. And very dark. No moon and the cloud cover obscures the stars. I am naked. No matter. This place is so remote the human nudity taboo doesn't apply.

_"Woo!"_

An owl. Threat assessment: minimal. Unless you are a mouse, which I am not.

I switch my vision mode to infra red. I am not alone. Far from it. Small blobs of white appear in my HUD: tiny heat sources of the creatures that come out at night. In the trees are owls and nesting birds. The ground is populated by rabbits and nocturnal foraging rodents.

I stand completely still for two hours. One of the tiny heat sources comes to investigate. As it sniffs around my legs I reach down and pick it up. It struggles vainly in my grasp. A rabbit. I have an idea. I will terminate it and leave it out for Snowy to find. He deserves a reward for his persistence.

At dawn I head back in the house, go upstairs and slip between the covers again. John likes to wake up with me by his side. This is what lovers do. And the other stuff, of course.

SUNDAY

John wakes at 8.13 AM. He smiles when he sees me next to him.

"Did you stay there all night?"

"Yes," I lie.

"Yeah? Then why are your feet dirty?"

_So busted!_

Snowy scratches at the door, barking loudly.

"What's bugging, Snowy?" John checks his iPhone display.

_sarah coming! sarah coming! sarah coming!_

John leaps out of bed and pulls the drapes back. Driving up the stony road is the SUV.

"He's right! It's mom! Quick! Go back to your room and get dressed."

John attempts to pull on his pants but succeeds only in falling over.

"Do you require assistance?"

"No! Go! Dress! She can't catch us like this!"

A key is inserted in the lock. The door opens. Sarah Connor enters. She says nothing. Evidently she is in stealth mode. John appears at the top of the stairs. He feigns calm.

"Hey, mom. Didn't hear you arrive. Why didn't you phone and let me know you were coming?"

"Where is she, John? Upstairs?"

"Where's who?"

"The girl."

"What girl?"

"Don't play dumb. I've told you I understand. I was your age once, hard though it is for you to believe. I won't bite her head off. I just want to meet her."

"Mom, there's no one here but me, Snowy and Cameron. Ask her if you don't believe me."

"She'll parrot whatever you've told her to say. And if there's really no one here you won't mind if I search the place."

John extends his arm in a sweeping gesture. "Go ahead. Knock yourself out."

Sarah Connor doesn't render herself unconscious, but she does search the house thoroughly from top to bottom. And finds precisely - no one.

"Please tell me she didn't run and hide in the woods when she heard me coming."

"How many times do I have to say it, there's no one here but us. Would you like some breakfast? Or are you planning on searching the woods. I think there's about 300 acres. I'd start now if I were you."

"There's really no one here?"

"Just a boy, a dog and a tin girl. All we're missing is Dorothy and a cowardly lion."

"You're forgetting the scarecrow."

"Right."

"So there's really no girlfriend?"

"Sorry to disappoint you."

"You could never disappoint me, John."

"You want cereal? No takeout, I'm afraid. No one delivers this far from town."

"I've already eaten. That's an impressive TV. Sixty inch?"

"Sixty-three," John says proudly. "Full Hi-Def with built in Blu-Ray. Out here we can max the surround sound as loud as we like."

"Where did the money come from?"

"Uh - Cameron had some allowance saved up."

"Really? That's quite a feat since she's never had an allowance."

"Mom, it's all legit. Trust me."

"No secrets, John. If we can't trust each other..."

He nods. "No secrets."

Mother and son nod at each then cross the intervening space and hug. It would be a touching scene, riven with high emotion, if Snowy hadn't picked this precise moment to enter the kitchen with a dead rabbit in his jaws. It is my dead rabbit. The one I terminated and intended for him to find. He drops it in the middle of the floor.

_"Woof woof!"_

_snowy chase, catch and kill rabbit all by himself!_

The big fibber!

"Hey, Snowy finally caught a rabbit! Good for you, fella." John tells him. "Cam, why don't you cook it for Snowy. He can have it for breakfast instead of kibbles."

I skin and gut the rabbit. I cook it under a low grill then remove the bones and chop it into small pieces, placing them in his favourite food bowl.

"Bon appetit."

Snowy sniffs the bowl dubiously. He backs away.

_rabbit smells funky! snowy not eat. want kibbles instead_

And after all that trouble!

**-000-**

**Mad Ellie began as a **_**Twilight**_** Bella Swan parody - the girl who wants to be a monster. I thought - okay, love, let's make you a monster, see how you like it. Not so much it seems.**

**I think Sarah's twigged about Jameron. She just wants John to nutup and admit it. He, a typical bloke, prefers subterfuge to emotional honesty. It'll bite him on the ass in the next chapter...**


	37. Chapter thirtyseven

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

TUESDAY

Occasionally my timing is spot on. This is called serendipity.

I return from my nightly patrol, go up to John's room, remove my clothing and slip under the crisp bed sheets. John likes to wake and find me beside him.

The LED clock on the side table shows 5:23AM when no sooner have I lain down than John's eyes open. He blinks blearily in the gloom.

"Hey."

"Hey."

We kiss. A long intense kiss that is often the precurser to Other Activities. In anticipation I slide my hand up and under the covers.

_"Oooof!"_

John doubles up in sudden pain, his face contorts with agony.

"What's wrong?"

_"You...struck...my...boys..."_

"I was attempting to initiate foreplay procedures."

_"Fetch...ice..."_

I do so. John places it where it hurts most. A very intimate place that I will not describe in these pages.

"Shall I try again?"

"Cam, no offense, but all I want to do right now is lie back and think about cold things."

"Like icebergs?" I suggest.

"Yeah! Beautiful, big, white and cold, very very cold, icebergs."

Whatever floats your boat.

MORNING

John is still thinking of icebergs in his room when Sarah Connor corners me in the kitchen while I prepare his breakfast pancakes.

"We need to talk," she states urgently.

"We do?"

"Yes."

"We never talk. You dislike me intensely."

"Can you blame me? If it wasn't for a few altered lines of binary code you'd slaughter us all."

I concede her point. It is hard to be liked if you are a few bytes away from committing genocide. Just look at Pol Pot. Absolutely no _Facebook_ friends.

"I want to know about this girl my son's dating."

"There is no girl," I lie.

"Quit covering for him. I'm not mad. I'm not going to interfere. I just want to know what she's like."

"A total hottie," I find myself admitting.

"Is she suitable for him?"

"They're made for each other." Literally so in my case.

"Is she from school?"

"Yes."

"Are they having sex?"

"Frequently."

"Does he wear rubbers?"

"Mostly jeans and tees. Sometimes a leather jacket."

"You're pretty stupid sometimes."

"I have a genius level IQ."

"Yet you don't know the difference between rubber and rubbers."

"One is plural."

She sighs and shakes her head. "I want to meet this girl."

"That might be difficult."

"I'm not going to bite her head off."

"No, you mostly eat chicken, fish and vegetables, not human body parts."

John appears in the kitchen doorway. He yawns and stretches.

"Morning. Is that pancakes I can smell? Good. I'm starved."

"I want to meet her, John."

"Meet who, mom?"

"The girl you're dating."

"Mom, there is no girl."

"Enough lies. Cameron already gave her up."

A sharp look in my direction. "What did she tell you?"

"You met a girl at school and you're in a serious relationship. I want to meet her today. Bring her over for dinner or you're grounded. No arguments."

"Mom!"

"Let me meet her once, to satisfy my curiosity. After that I'll leave you both alone."

"You promise? No more snooping?"

"I promise."

SCHOOL

In the Porsche during the drive to school John says, "I need to find a girlfriend."

"You have a girlfriend. Me."

"I need a fake one I can introduce to mom. Get her off our backs so she'll leave us alone."

"A fake girlfriend?"

"Yeah. I'll offer someone cash to pose. How about your friend Ellie?"

"No, she is in a dark place right now."

"Okay, one of the girls on your soccer team maybe?"

"Ramona is aways short of cash," I concede.

"Ramona! Of course. She'd be perfect.

**-0-**

John corners Ramona at recess and outlines his plan.

"You want to pay me five hundred dollars to be your gf?"

"Pretend to be."

"But Cameron's your gf."

"It's complicated. Cameron's actually my -_ uh _- cousin. She's living with us. Mom wouldn't approve."

"And you want someone to throw her off the scent?"

"Exactly. Will you do it?"

"For five hundred bucks? Hell, yeah!

"Great!"

"What do I have to do?"

"Come home with us and I'll introduce you to mom. That's it. One shot deal."

"We don't have to get hot and heavy?"

"No."

"I mean, for that money I'd let you squeeze my butt."

"Not necessary."

"You dissing my butt, dog?"

"It's a simple meet and greet."

"Because my butt rocks. All that soccer really firms up the glutes. You could open beer bottles with my butt crack."

"I'll pick you up after school."

"Okay, dog. Hey, what kind of gf am I?"

"Huh?"

"Am I slutty? Do I swallow? Do I enjoy being spanked?"

"Just regular stuff," John tells her. His face reddens.

"Okay, I can do vanilla. Does your mom know I'm latino?"

"She doesn't know anything about you."

"Because some white moms don't like their son's tasting the brown sugar."

"It's fine. We lived in Mexico. We have Mexican friends."

"I'm Puerto Rican."

"Oh. Sorry."

"Kidding! My folks are totally Mexican. Ramona likes her fun, Jay-dog!"

John winces. "Please don't call me Jay-dog in front of mom."

**-0-**

We pick up Ramona in the Porsche later that day.

"How do I look?"

"Wow. Beautiful."

This is true. She is wearing a short skirt that highlights her long, lightly-muscled legs. She has on a white blouse. Her hair is worn loose and her face has the minimum of make up. I'd totally do her.

"Skirt not too short?"

"It's great."

"I could undo some shirt buttons and let the girls out to play?"

"Let's keep the girls indoors."

Ramona's throaty laugh fills the Porsche. "Whatever you say, Jay-dog! You the man!"

We pull up outside the safehouse.

"You live here?"

"Yeah."

"Cool crib. I'd like a place like this some day. I hate the tenements."

We enter the house. Sarah Connor is waiting for us in the kitchen.

"Mom, this is Ramona. Ramona this is my mom."

"Hi, nice to meet you, _uh_..."

"Call me Sarah."

"Right. Awesome place you have here, Sarah."

"Thank you. Have a seat. Would you like some tea?"

"Tea'd be way cool. Thanks."

"John, fix us some tea, please."

"Milk no sugar," Ramona says. She smiles and pats her stomach. "Gotta watch the calories."

"You're as thin as a rake."

"Doesn't come easy, lemme tell ya."

"So, how did you and my son meet?"

"Um - I think he watched me play soccer one time. My ass looks amazing in tight shorts. You know Jay-dog; it's all about the booty!"

John drops a teacup on the floor.

Sarah Connor smirks. "I do indeed know...Jay-dog. So you play soccer?"

"Totally. Everyone said, try out for basketball, Ramona, because I'm like freaky tall. But I'm no baller; I love soccer. My favourite team's Real Madrid in Spain. My fav player is Ronaldo. He's a God. I worship him. I would totally give it up for him. Er - and your son too, of course."

"Quite. Any college plans?"

"I'm hoping to win a soccer scholorship to USC. Don't wanna waste my life waiting tables for chump change."

John drops another teacup on the floor. I hear him groan softly.

"I was a waitress," his mother confides with a thin smile.

"Oh God, I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to imply-"

"It's okay. It's good to have ambition."

Snowy suddenly leaps on the table, barking a greeting.

_"Woof, woof!"_

Ramona recoils in shock. "Christ, that scared me! I nearly peed my freaking pants! Nice doggie. Please don't bite me."

"This is Snowy," I tell her. "He's saying hello."

"Hi, Snowy. Not really a dog person. They bring me out in hives. Oh gross, I can see his thingy!"

"Cameron, take Snowy outside. He appears to be upsetting our guest."

-0-

Once outside Snowy wastes no time complaining about this treatment.

_"Woof, woof!"_

_why girl not like snowy?_

"She's not a dog person."

_snowy adorable! everyone like snowy!_

"Not everyone apparently."

_snowy bite mean girl later!_

"You know what happens if you misbehave," I warn him.

_sarah throw water at snowy!_

"Yes."

_snowy not like!_

This is true; he whimpers like a baby and hides under the bed.

_cameron chase snowy?_

"Very well."

I chase Snowy round the yard. He enjoys this.

I am such a pushover.

**-0-**

Ramona leaves forty-five minutes later. John drives her home. She smiles and waves farewell. I wave also. Snowy turns his back and ignores her, still sulking over the earlier business.

Inside the house Sarah Connor is loading plates into the dishwasher.

"So that's John's mystery girlfriend."

"Yes."

"She's pretty."

"Yes."

"Not at all what I expected."

"You expected ugly?"

"No. Just...different. I can see the physical attraction but...she's nothing like Riley or Kate Brewster."

"No," I agree. "She's not dead."

"I hope John knows what he's doing."

"He's doing Ramona."

This is not an appropriate comment apparently.

**-0-**

John returns an hour later and goes straight up to his room. I join him.

"That went well," he says.

"You think?"

"I was being sarcastic. She's the fake girlfriend from Hell. And I'm out five hundred did mom say when we left?"

"Ramona wasn't like she expected."

"I'll say!"

"No, she says," I correct.

"Not one of my better ideas. And it gets worse. Mom invited her over for lunch in a few weeks. So that'll be another five hundred bucks. Unless I can negotiate a discount."

"You can be very persuasive," I say.

John pulls me to him, kisses me lightly on the lips.

"Let's do something fun. Forget this awful evening ever happened."

"We could do that thing with me on all fours," I suggest.

John grins wolfishly. "We could, couldn't we."

We do.

**-000-**

**A shorter chapter. Didn't really fit with the Mad Ellie meltdown and the other stuff I have planned.**

**Note Snowy's indignation. If you don't make a big fuss of a dog the first time you meet them they never really warm to you after that I've found.**

**That thing on all fours? Obviously a nice relaxing game of**_** Twister...**_


	38. Chapter thirtyeight

**The Secret Diary Of Cameron Baum**

MONDAY

English class. The lesson is coming to an end and the teacher, Mr Gutierrez, is outlining our assignment.

"Write an essay explaining the significance the green light at the end of Daisy Buchanan's dock has for Jay Gatsby. And what the author is trying to convey to us about the human condition. On my desk first thing Monday morning."

The bell sounds for recess. The students rise as one, impatient to be at break.

"File out in an orderly manner, this isn't a zoo. Cameron? Stay behind, please."

I resume my seat. My soccer teamates Ramona and Wanda smile sympathetically in my direction. The other students depart. One boy makes an odd licking motion with his tongue as he passes my desk, causing several other boys to snigger. I don't know what this implies. Is he thirsty? Or hungry? Does he want to eat me? Perhaps I will seek him out later and beat the explanation out of him.

The classroom is now empty save for myself and Mr Gutierrez, who remains seated behind his desk. He is a grossly overweight human male in his late 40s. He favours a corduroy jacket with animal skin on the elbows teamed with cotton chinos. His girth and a smoking habit often leave him redfaced and short of breath. He is a competent teacher, mostly liked by the students who have nicknamed him Mr Gutbucketz. I don't know what this means.

"I wanted to speak with you in private, Cameron, regarding the essay you handed in for poetry class. The one titled 'The Sentinel'. Do you remember?"

I do. We were tasked with writing a poem about ourselves and how we feel we are perceived in relation to others. I called mine 'The Sentinel'. I could hardly call it 'The Terminator'. What kind of title is that for anything?

"Is something wrong?" I ask. I can terminate him easily. Disposal of the body may be more troublesome due to his size. I could chop him up into smaller chunks. There would be blood. I will require mops, plenty of mops. Also buckets. Or do I mean bucketz?

"No, no, nothing wrong exactly. It was very good. One of the best, in fact. I gave it an 's just..." He sighs. "I'm rather disturbed by the content. Let me refresh your memory."

He clears his throat and reads my words back to me.

_"The Sentinel watches._

_And waits._

_And never sleeps._

_Or eats. _

_Never feels._

_Never loves._

_A simulcra at best._

_The Sentinel abides._

_In the future_

_The present_

_The past_

_Always._

You carry on like that for several verses. Is this how you see yourself, a sentinel?"

"Is it bad?"

"Well, it seems to suggest a profound sense of alienation, of isolation from your peers. Are you having trouble fitting in at school?"

"No."

"Involving yourself in extracurricular activities?"

"I'm on the soocer team."

"Yes, of course. I've seen you play. And we're all very proud and excited by the success you girls are having." He shuffles papers on his desk, appearing slightly ill at ease. "Do you have a boyfriend?"

"Yes."

"And he treats you well?"

"We have frequent sex. This is called putting out. I am not sure why since there appears to be more putting in than putting out."

"Ah...quite. Well, you're of age and it's none of my business. I trust you use protection?"

"I am the protection."

"What I'm trying to say, if you need a friendly ear, someone to talk things over with, then you can always come to me. Or Nurse Walsh, if you prefer a woman. Anything you say, any questions you wish to ask, I will do my best to answer and will be kept in the strictest confidence."

"I do have one question," I declare.

"You do?"

"Yes."

"Well, I'm here to help. Tell me, what is your question?"

"Why are you called Mr Gutbucketz?"

AFTERNOON

After lunch the soccer team travel to Pasadena by chartered coach to play their High school at soccer. We are top of the league table. Kudos us.

Pasadena play in an all-red strip, while we take the field in our usual white. They are a useful side, fully capable of giving us a hard match. Much to Ramona's chagrin they play a progressive 3-4-3 system, like the one she is constantly urging Coach Gruber to adopt.

"Moves, get the ball out quickly. We need to get in behind their big centrehalves," she instructs me mid way through the first half.

I oblige. I throw a long ball out to Wanda on the left wing. She takes it forward, her muscular body easily holding off the attentions of the Pasadena defenders. Once at the by-line she crosses the ball, seeking the predatory skills of Ramona. She has her back to goal yet still manages to scissor kick the ball which flies past the home keeper's despairing dive and into the net. 1-0 our side.

In the second half Pasadena surge forward in numbers, determined to score an equalizer. Not on my watch. I make several important last ditch saves. My targeting software, normally used to aim weapons, is equally useful in judging the flight of the ball. None Shall Pass, that is my motto.

With ten minutes remaining Pasadena force a corner. As the ball comes across I leap to catch it. The Pasadena centre forward quite deliberately jumps into me in midair. She hits my coltan endo-skeleton and falls to the ground, lying completely still.

"Foul! White number one!"

The ref blows his whistle and waves a red card at me. Odd. What does this mean? It's not my birthday. Or xmas.

"It means you've been sent off," Wanda explains. "Serious foulplay. Don't argue it'll just make things worse. Go wait for us in the changing room."

I leave the pitch just as the Pasadena player regains consciousness and is helped from the field. She glares in my direction. I ignore her.

-0-

I sit alone in the dressing room until the game ends and the team troops in. They look despondent.

"We fell apart after you left," Ramona says glumly. "Conceded two late goals and lost 2-1. And we heard Brentwood won their match."

"Means we're one point behind with two games to play," Wanda chimes in.

Ramona slumps on the bench. "Brentwood play Ventura County next. That's points in the bag for them. We've got Tarzana and they're always tough to beat. And we won't have you in goal."

"Why not?" I enquire.

"Automatic one match suspension for a red card." Ramona pulls her jersey off and throws it at the wall in frustration. She sits there in her sports bra, voice a dull monotone. "Guess I won't be going to USC. Mac Dee's here I come. Minimum wage slave just like my sisters."

"That's chump talk!" Wanda scolds her best friend. "You're a smart girl who can do anything you wanna do."

"Not if you're from the Projects."

"It ain't over yet. If we beat Tarzana we play Brentwood again final match. It's still in our hands."

"What happened, Moves?" Ramona asks me. "Did you really foul that girl?"

"She jumped into me and fell awkwardly," I explain.

"Seemed she tried to barge Cameron in the air and came off worse somehow," Wanda says, eyeing me curiously. "You 're a slip of a girl yet she bounced off you like you was made of stone."

"She fell awkwardly," I insist as targeting graphics overlay Wanda's skull. One well-aimed punch...

"Hey, I ain't accusing you. Just telling it how I saw it."

I remove my kit and join the other girls in the showers. Presently Wanda joins me, taking the nozzle next to mine. She has a shower cap on her head to protect her braids. She is a powerfully built athlete who also represents the school at track and field.

"The ref should've sent the other girl off, not you. You were unlucky."

Wanda reaches over and presses her forefinger into my shoulder. My pseudo-flesh gives just like regular human skin. She seems satisfied.

"Guess you're not made of stone after all."

A stone terminator? How primitive.

Ramona joins us.

"You feeling better, girlfriend?"

"Not really. Listen, Wanda, if I'm thirty and still working at Mac Dee's I want you to shoot me, okay?"

"Hey, I ain't shooting no one! Just 'cause I'm black don't make me a gangsta."

"There are worse things than waiting tables at Mac Dee's," I point out.

"Yeah? Like what?"

"Like fighting for your lives in the rubble of this city against an enemy that will not rest until you are wiped from the face of the earth."

They stare at me in puzzlement as I walk out of the showers and begin to get dressed.

-0-

HOME

I arrive home in the early evening to find John has a suprise for me - three dirtbikes side by side on a trailer attached to the SUV.

"Aren't they great? Picked them up cheap. I thought we could keep them at the safehouse in the country. If we're ambushed we can use them to getaway across the fields."

Sarah Connor is not impressed.

"Aren't there enough ways you could be killed without you finding another one?"

"Mom, if it wasn't for a bike like these the TX would've killed me years ago."

John is referring to the time a TX-class terminator was sent back from the future to kill him. Future John responded by sending a T-800 to protect his younger self. He seldom speaks about this period of his life. His step-parents were brutally murdered and his mother incarcerated in a mental institute.

"Just be careful," his mother advises and goes back inside the house.

I help John remove the bikes from their trailer. Jerold Ramirez steps outside his house and notices what we are doing.

"Hey, man, cool wheels."

"Yeah. One for me, Cam and mom."

"Sarah's gonna ride one of those things? Man, I bet she looks hot in tight leathers."

"You want to go take another cold shower?"

"No, man, I'm over it! That was a total misunderstanding." He winks at me. I wink back. It seems like the thing to do.

John says, "I rode these when I was a kid down in the river culverts pretending they were speeder bikes - y'know, like in _Jedi_."

"Oh man, yeah! Totally cool movie. Hey - how come the scientists can't hurry up and invent that kinda stuff? No one gives a shit about 3D TV. Give us speeder bikes and hoverboards. And fembots!"

"Fembots?" I say, curious.

"Yeah! Robots that look just like hot chicks, only they obey your every whim and don't slap your the face when you stare at their...well, you get the gist."

"I don't know, man, fembots sound kinda far-fetched." John smiles in my direction. He is being playful. "What d'you think, Cam?"

"I think you should be careful what you wish for."

"Where's Alys these days?" John asks. "Haven't seen her around."

"San Francisco. She's been accepted by Berkeley so she's scouting student digs. She'll be there and I'll be here. It's the first time we've ever been apart. I know we bicker and everything but I'm really gonna miss her. I mean, who's gonna tell me off when I act stupid?"

"I'm sure you'll find someone, man," John assures him.

"I hope so."

"Why don't you try not acting stupid?" I suggest. John and Jerold burst out laughing as if this is too absurd for words.

"Yeah, like that'll ever happen!" Jerold says with a grin.

"I'm gonna give these bad boys a shakedown," John says indicating the dirtbikes. "Wanna come?"

"Hell, yeah! Hey, why don't we take them to Hermosa Beach? It's lowtide and the sand goes on forever."

"Cool. You coming?" John asks me.

"Not to the beach," I reply.

"Ri-ght, your sand phobia."

Jerold laughs. "Chicks, huh? Crazier than bedbugs!"

John throws Jerold a spare helmet and they board their bikes, revving the engines until the air is thick with oily blue smoke. With a wave they head off, racing each other to the end of the street.

Snowy bounds up attracted by the noise.

_where john and jerold go?_

"The beach."

_snowy love the beach!_

"You're too late. Where have you been?"

_snowy do poopsies!_

"Whereabouts?"

Snowy hangs his head sheepishly.

_sarah's vegetable garden..._

"You know what happens if she catches you."

_sarah turn hose on snowy!_

"I won't tell if you won't."

-0-

John doesn't return until after dark. He smells of salt spray, smoke and lowgrade alcohol.

"Some of Jerold's surfer buds had a bonfire on the beach. I hung out, sank a cold one or two. No big deal."

"Were girls present?"

"Surfer chicks, that's all."

"Surfer chicks in bikinis?"

John shrugs. "A few. It was a party scene."

"Were they pretty girls?"

Another shrug. He is evasive, not meeting my eyes.

"I see. Excuse me, please."

"Where are you going?"

"I'll be back."

I go up to my room, remove my clothing and stare at my body in the full length mirror. This body is modeled on that of Allison Young, a Resistance freedom fighter I tortured and killed many years ago. Or many years in the future, depending on your POV. Allison was an attractive human female, but not a beauty queen. Other females have larger boobs, still others longer legs, blonder hair, more dazzling smiles.

I run my hands down my modest chest, across my flat stomach, and brush the pseudo-flesh of my slim thighs with my fingers. I turn slightly so I can check out my butt reflected in the mirror. Firm and pert. Now and for always. There will be no sagging, no unslightly blemishes, no ravages caused by age or intemperate living. There are some advantages to being a machine.

I delve in my wardrobe for an item of clothing I seldom wear due to my dislike of the beach. I don it and return to John's room.

"Cam, what are wearing?" John asks as I slip inside his room.

"Can't you tell?"

"I can tell it's a bikini. But why?"

"Do I look like a surfer chick?"

"Cam..."

"Do I?" I insist.

"No."

"No?"

"You're much prettier. And far more special than any surfer chick."

"Really?"

"Really. Now come here."

We kiss for several minutes. "What's this all about really?" John asks tenderly.

"My emoticon chip. I believe it is malfunctioning."

"Malfunctioning how?"

"When I imagine you around beautiful girls I feel...inadequate. An ersatz female at best."

"You will never be inadequate. Or ersatz. Where'd you get that word?"

"Oxford English Dictionary," I confess. "It comes preloaded. It means artificial substitute or-"

"I know what it means."

John holds me for several minutes, his arms a tight comforting embrace. It helps.

-0-

**If Cameron can feel love then she can certainly feel some of the insecurities that accompany it. Her love for John is prob absolute. But him? Who knows why it comes and when it goes? The Libertines nailed it in the song 'Music When the Lights Go Out'.**

_I no longer hear the music_

_when the lights go out_

_Love grows cold in the shade of doubt_

_The strange fate in my mind is all too clear_

_The girl I thought I knew is gone_

_And with her my heart it disappeared._

**Okay, time to crank it up a notch. The Mad Ellie/soccer team storylines are wrapped up in the next two explosive chapters.**


	39. Chapter thirtynine

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SUNDAY NIGHT

"I have been reading the _Kama Sutra_," I inform John in the confines of his darkened bedroom where we are lying side by side on the bed. "Or a more accurate description is I have downloaded the _Kama Sutra_, eliminating some positions it is inadvisible to attempt due to strength and weight incompatibility. This still leaves a large number."

"How large?" John asks.

"Two hundred and twelve."

"Wow, that's a lot of - _uh_ - positions."

"Yes," I agree. "So we had better get started. I have chosen one at random called the_ Praying Mantis_. It might be advisible to do stretching exercises beforehand."

MONDAY MORNING

"Are you feeling alright?" Sarah Connor asks her son at the breakfast table.

"I'm fine. Why?"

"I saw you wince as you sat down."

"I'm a little sore, that's all."

"It's those damn dirtbikes you keep riding."

"It's definitely something I'm riding," John replies with a rueful grin and a glance in my direction. I did advise him to stretch thoroughly.

"Paws off the table. You know the rules."

Snowy complies instantly. He is very obedient around Sarah Connor since he knows she is quite capable of delivering a swift kick to his tender parts if he disobeys.

_"Woof, woof, woof!"_

"Must he keep barking like that? It's as if the stupid dog thinks we can understand him."

"Yeah, weird," John grins. "Snowy's just being friendly, mom."

"Well, he can be friendly outside." She stares at John. "Does Ramona eat meat?"

"Who?"

"Ramona. Your girlfriend. She's coming to lunch, remember?"

"Oh. Right. Er - I think she eats meat. I'm not sure."

"She does," I confirm. "Though she hates anchovies. Their tiny dead eyes gross her out. Also she doesn't like cauliflowers because they look like brains. She thinks Green Day suck now they've gone all political, Charlie Sheen is a sleazy bully who deserves to be castrated, and she won't watch the blooper reel on DVDs because they spoil the magic."

John's mother smirks. "Hear that? She knows more about your new girlfriend than you do."

John smiles sheepishly then shoots me a look of annoyance. Something I said? Definitely. It is not my fault; I record every conversation I hear and cross-index the information to my HD. This is a facility humans lack. Many are unable to recall even simple details, such as the breakfast they consumed a week ago. I remember everything and have perfect recall. I am very anal. I like anal. John says I must never say this out loud in public or it might be misconstrued. This information is also downloaded and saved. It is indexed under A. A for anal.

"So lasagne will be fine?"

"Uh - sure. I guess."

"Today is the day of the Big Match." I announce.

"Big match? What's she talking about?"

"Cameron's soccer team play Brentwood today," John explains, pleased that Ramona, his fake girlfriend, is no longer the topic of conversation. "It's for the championship. The last game of the season. Everyone's excited at school. It's a pretty big deal."

"She's on the soccer team?"

"Sure. I told you ages ago."

"Must've slipped my mind."

"I'm the goalie," I tell her. "I wear the number one."

"Cameron has the most assists in the league."

"And that's good because..?"

"Because Goals Win Games," I say, echoing Coach Gruber's mantra, the one he drills into us at every training session.

"And soccer is the most popular team sport in the world" John adds. "She's learning teamwork, how to support others for the good of the side."

"Has she killed anyone?"

"Of course not."

"That's all I care about."

"You should come to the game today," John suggests. "Cameron's team must win to top the league. All the other soccer moms will be there."

"Do I look like a soccer mom to you?"

"You should still come. You're meant to be Cameron's mom and you've never seen her play. People are gonna think that's strange not supporting your daughter."

"Right. She's my daughter."

"Hey, you chose the cover story." John gets up from the table. "The team play in white. I'll loan you a scarf."

SCIENCE CLASS

Ellie Ryan is already seated at the desk we share when I arrive. She looks...different. The long dark hair she normally wears brushed forward to obscure her face is today pulled back into a ponytail. Also absent is the kohl eyeliner and black nailpolish. The effect is to make her seem younger, except for the dark circles under her eyes that suggest she hasn't slept well.

"I felt like a change," she replies when I query the new look. "I've thrown all my vampire stuff away. I'm so over that."

"Why?"

"Why d'you think?"

"Ren Taylor."

A nod and a furtive glance at the table in front of ours where Ren Taylor would normally sit if she wasn't dead, killed accidentally by Ellie's clumsy attempt at intimidation.

"I spent so much time obsessing, wishing I was something else," she confesses miserably. "Then it actually happened. I became a monster."

"And it wasn't what you expected?"

"No. I haven't slept much since it happened. All that blood..." She shudders. "What will happen? To Michael, I mean."

"He will be held in custody while the police investigate her disappearence."

"I saw it on the news. Her bra turned up in his MG. That was you, wasn't it?"

"Correct."

"Why not put Ren's body in the trunk for the police to find?"

"Forensics might tell them a different story. The Devil is in the details."

"I ruined Michael's life."

"Would you prefer to ruin your own?"

A shake of the head.

"Part of me wants to confess. I don't think I can live with the guilt."

I slide my hand over hers and press down slightly, enough to compress the bones. Her breath quickens.

"That would be a mistake," I tell her. "And you have made enough of those. Don't make it a habit."

CHANGING ROOM

It is the afternoon of the big match.Inside the changing room Ramona is attempting to give the team a pep talk. It is difficult because the enormity of the occasion is stressing her out so much she is beginning to talk gibberish.

"Okay, no biggie. This is only the most important game ever ever EVER! If we lose my life is basically over. Finito. So no pressure. It's just a game. Not life or death. It's way more important than that."

A hand goes up.

"Yeah, Katie?"

"Did you say the game's more important than life or death?"

"No! That's crazy talk."

"But you said it!"

"No, I didn't!"

"Did, too!"

"Are you calling me a liar? Right, outside - I'll kick your bony ass!"

"We all need to calm down," Wanda intercedes smoothly. "What Ramona means is we treat this like any other game but still do our utmost to win. Because who's the best team in LA?"

"WE ARE!" the team chorus loudly.

"And who's gonna kick Brentwood's ass?"

"WE ARE!"

"Damn straight, we are!"

Wanda takes Ramona to one side. "You okay, girlfriend? You seem a little tense."

"I'm fine. A little wound up is all."

"Chill, girl, we need you cool, calm and collected if we're gonna win this thing. Look at Moves there. Cool as a proverbial cucumber."

"She's always like that. She's got ice in her veins."

"No ice," I reply. No veins either, I don't add.

A knock on the door. Coach Gruber's voice booms through the plywood. "Twenty minutes to kickoff, girls! Can I come in?"

"No!" Ramona yells. "We haven't got our kit on! Go away, you dirty old perv!"

"Steady, girl, you'll be getting yoself expelled if you carry on like that."

Ramona smiles wanly. She hands me a newspaper. "Seen this, Moves? We got a pretty decent write up in the local paper. Maybe it's a good omen, huh?"

There above a banner headline that reads:

LOCAL GIRLS PLAY OFF FOR SOCCER TITLE

Is a photograph of the team.

A photograph of team including me.

_A photograph of me._

I take the newspaper and leave the changing room.

"Hey, Cameron, where you going? The match is about to start."

I don't bother to reply. It is a very bad omen indeed.

-0-

I find John and his mother seated in the stands. There is a sizable crowd gathered to watch the match. Soccer is a very popular sport. Ramona has told me there are professional soccer players who earn a lucrative living playing the game. In England, home of the best league in the world, players can earn in excess of half a million dollars a week. For kicking a ball around a mown field? It seems unlikely. But then so does much about human cuture. Kim Kardashian, for example. What is she actually for?

John understands the implications once I show him the newspaper photo. He so gets me.

"You think if there's a terminator in the city he'll see this and come here?"

"Where I am you are likely to be also. We must leave at once."

John then surprises me by shaking his head. "No. This newspaper has a small circulation. It's a longshot a terminator will see it. And besides, this game's important. You can't run away and let down the school or your friends. And I want to be here to see you lift that trophy."

The two teams run out on to the field, greeted by applause and cheers. With John's blessing I rejoin my team.

"Jeez, Moves, don't do that to me!" Ramona scolds. "I thought you'd lost your nerve and split."

"I never lose my nerve," I assure her. How could I? No nervous system.

The game kicks off. Brentwood make the brighter start with fluid passing movements all across the pitch. I am kept busy dealing with a number of speculative shots while at the same time scanning the crowd for signs of terminator activity. Ramona spots this duality of purpose.

"Keep your eyes on the ball. Stop staring at your boyfriend. He'll still be there at the end of the game."

I hope she is right.

Towards the end of the half we finally find some width down the flanks. Wanda muscles her way past two defenders and delivers a low cross for Ramona to sidefoot home. 1-0.

This setback seems to demoralise the Brentwood girls and a slick exchange of passes between Wanda and the Juggster ends in our second goal. 2-0.

The whistle sounds for the end of the half and we leave the pitch to wild cheers from our own supporters.

Ramona is all smiles in the changing room, the tension of earlier forgotten.

"Okay, we're really kicking Brentwood's ass! If we sneak a third it's as good as in the bag. No way can they put three past Cameron."

This is true. I am the best goalie ever. Ego much? You do the math.

There is a sudden commotion at the door. Voices raised in anger.

"Hey, you can't come in here! It's the girls changing room!"

"Where is John Connor?"

"John who? Hey, come back here!"

Framed in the doorway is a T-888. Despite it being a dry sunny day he is wearing a long raincoat. Why soon becomes apparent: it is to disguise the shotgun he is carrying. He spots me, raises the barrel and pulls the trigger.

_BOOM! BOOM!_

The rounds strike me low in the abdomen as I advance towards him, knocking me off my feet. Girls scream at the top of their voices. My HUD is suddenly awash with red warning icons. I am flat on my back and can't seem to move.

The T-888 sees I am incapacitated and no longer a threat and moves further into the changing room to search the shower stalls. The majority of the girls take the opportunity to flee the danger area. Two remain. Ramona and Wanda. They kneel beside me.

"Shit, that SOB shot Moves!"

"I can't feel a pulse!"

"Is she dead?"

"That's generally what no pulse means."

"But we can't play the second half without a goalie!"

"Mona! Some respect for the dead."

"Are you sure she's not faking it? You know what a kidder she is. C'mon, Moves, haha, joke's over"

"Mona, she was shot and there's a huge hole where her stomach should be. This isn't a joke. But how come there's not more blood? She was shot at pointblank range. There should be blood and guts every where."

I can feel Wanda's hands probing my abdomen. Motor functions remain offline.

"What's that silvery stuff?" I hear Ramona ask. "Is she wearing bacofoil underwear?"

"What? Are you tripping, girl? Why would anyone wear bacofoil underwear?"

"I don't know! I said the first thing that came into my head. I'm freaking out here!"

"I think it's her skeleton. Look - see how it all connects? She has metal bones."

"No freaking way!"

"No, it all makes sense. Think about it. That freaky goal. Her strength. The way she seemed to know where the ball was going. I think Cameron was some kind of...robot."

"Omigod - the league will disqualify us for fielding an inelligible player! I'm pretty sure robots can't be goalies! I mean, it's not in the rules but it's probably frowned upon and-"

"Will you please stop obsessing about soccer! A girl is dead. Our friend is dead. And crazy as it sounds I think she was a robot."

Several icons in my HUD turn green. Partial system restore. I am able to sit up.

"Not a robot," I state. "Cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a coltan endo-skeleton."

"Moves, you're alive! And delusional. She's speaking gibberish. Must be the shock."

"No, I think she's telling us what she is. Are you an alien? Are you from outer space?"

"Ooh - d'you know C3P0?"

"Mona, get a grip!"

"Sorry, sorry! Still freaking out here. Oh shit, that creep's coming back!"

The T-888 reappears. "Where is John Connor?" he demands.

_"Right here, asshole!"_

John. In the doorway aiming a pump-action shotgun. The one with armor-piercing shells.

_BOOM!_

The first shell shatters the T-888's right shoulder cluster. The shotgun falls harmlessly from his grasp.

_BOOM!_

The second shell destroys his jaw and most of the left side of his face. Yet still he advances, remorseless, implacable.

_BOOM!_

The third shot is the charm. The T-888's head is completely severed from his body. He drops to his knees then slumps forward to lie prostrate on the floor, inert, harmless, terminated.

John helps me to my feet. Sarah Connor appears in the doorway. "The police are on their way. We need to leave right now."

"Sarah?" Ramona says, her face a study in confusion.

"Hello, Ramona. Nice goal earlier. Is there another way out of here?"

"There's a door behind the showers but it's usually kept locked."

"Not a problem."

Wait, Sarah, what is that...thing?"

"The enemy. Oh and Ramona, about our lunchdate..."

"Yeah?"

"Raincheck."

-0-

We finish loading the T-888's carcass into the back of the SUV. "The safehouse is compromised," Sarah Connor declares. "We need to head for the one in the countryside."

"No," I state emphatically.

"We have no choice. They'll have our address soon."

"I will not leave Snowy behind."

"Dammit, the cops could be waiting for you."

"I will not abandon Snowy."

"I'll drive Cameron in the Porsche," John says. "You go ahead, mom. We''ll catch up."

"Don't risk your life over a stupid dog!"

"I'll be fine. Go."

-0-

The safehouse is deserted. No sign of the police or anyone else. We hurry inside. I grab Snowy and my secret diary. I wouldn't want that to fall into the wrong hands. Someone might post it on the internet. How embarrassing! John takes some weapons from the cache under the floorboards and wraps them in a blanket. He nods at me. We leave.

Jerold Ramirez is outside in the driveway. He is wearing his rubber surfing outfit, hair wet from the ocean. "Hey, guys," he greets us. "Gnarly breakers today! Fifteen feet high easy." He frowns. "You two in a hurry to go someplace?"

"Uh - yeah, short vacation," John tells him.

"Cool. Whereabouts?"

"Uh - Long Beach."

"Awesome! Check out this club I know on the waterfront. Wall to wall chicks, man!"

"Will do. Listen, Jerold, if I don't see you - good luck with college."

"Thanks, man."

"And tell Alys good luck when you see her."

"Okay, dude."

We drive away.

We will likely never see Jerold or his sister again.

-0-

At the safehouse south of the city Sarah Connor is watching the TV news when we arrive.

"Nothing," she says. "Not a word. Despite multiple witnesses. They must be hushing it up again."

"The Feds?"

"Most likely. Leaning on the local cops. And our IDs are now a liability. I don't think you'll be graduating just yet."

"There is another problem," I announce. "My fuelcell was damaged by the proximity of the shotgun blasts. I am leaking radiation."

Sarah Connor crosses her arms over her chest and takes several steps away from me.

John says, "Okay, so we'll fix you."

"Impossible. I cannot reach the damaged parts. And if you try you will absorb a lethal dose of radiation."

"There must be something we can do!"

"In 53 minutes my fuelcell will reach critical mass."

"What happens then?"

"I explode."

**-000-**

**On that bombshell...literally.**

**Oops - nearly forgot Cam's diary. Had to write an extra scene so she could retrieve it. I envisage it as an actual book she writes in pen and ink. Old school, baby!**

**Okay, promised you an explosion and an explosion you shall have...**


	40. Chapter forty

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MONDAY cont...

It is two minutes since I informed John and his mother of the damage sustained by my fuelcell and that in 51 minutes it will reach critical mass and I will explode.

"There must be something we can do!" John insists. "What about Cameron sub-prime? Couldn't we swap her fuelcell for yours?"

"In theory, yes. But it will take too long to travel to the desert. And you would still face the problem of the leaking radiation when you tried to make the swap."

"We can't just stand by and let you explode!"

_49 minutes and counting..._

Sarah Connor asks, "How big will the explosion be?"

"Freaking big."

"How far is a safe distance?"

I do the calculations. "At least a quarter mile."

She nods. "John, we need to leave. Pack up your things. And fetch the dog. We'll take both vehicles."

John holds his head in his hands. "This is my fault," he says in an anquished tone of voice. "Cameron was right. We should've left immediately. Of course those things check all the media outlets. What was I thinking?"

"We need to leave. An explosion that size will be noticed."

"No! It can't end like this! I won't let it!"

"John, be reasonable. There's nothing anyone can do."

"No, you're wrong. I've got an idea."

John runs out of the house. Sarah Connor sighs wearily and begins packing. She deliberately avoids looking at me.

_39 minutes and counting... _

John returns five minutes later. He has several sheets of lead in his arms. "They were protecting the chimney up on the roof," he explains. "I can fashion a shield from them to protect against the radiation. I can save you."

His mother looks at me. "Will that work?"

"In theory. Lead will stop the majority of harmful radiation."

"In theory? You don't know for sure?

"I have never exploded before."

John makes an upright screen of lead sheet with holes cut for arms and a slit to see through. He makes gauntlets out of the rest to wrap around his arms. Sarah Connor frowns but makes no move to stop him. She glances frequently at her watch. I can tell her time if she asks.

_32 minutes until I go boom._

"Okay,this is what we'll do," John announces. "I'll stay and fix Cameron. Mom - you take Snowy in the SUV and get to a safe distance. I'll call on the cells when I'm done."

"No."

"No? Mom, it'll work, I swear. Trust me."

"You're too valuable to risk this way. The entire future of our species might rest on you."

"I won't let Cameron explode!"

"I know you won't." She smiles sadly. "That's why I'll do it. I'll stay behind and fix her."

"Mom, the cancer..."

"I know. Maybe this is how it's meant to be. Maybe she's more important to the future than I am. She certainly seems to mean more to you than I do."

"That's not true!"

"No? She's your girlfriend, isn't she? She's the one you've been sleeping with not Ramona."

John nods. " How long have you known?"

"Since you brought Ramona home to meet me. An attractive girl just not your type at all."

"Maybe I don't have a type."

"And the way you acted when she was there. On tenterhooks. Like you didn't know how she'd act or what she'd say next. You barely touched her. It was as if she was a complete stranger. I knew something was wrong. What did you do - offer her a hundred dollars to pose as your girlfriend?"

"Try five hundred. And double that for the lunch." He smiles ruefully. "At least I've saved that. Why didn't you say something?"

"I was waiting for you to have the courage to tell me the truth."

"I'm sorry, it's just...strange. I love a machine. A machine I sent back from the future to protect me. It's not your normal boy meets girl."

"I just want you to be happy. And safe."

"Speaking of safe," I remind them. "Twenty-five minutes until I explode. No biggie."

John places Snowy in the SUV then comes back to say goodbye.

"Go." Sarah Connor insists. "We'll see you soon. No one's exploding on my watch."

"I love you both so very much. You have no idea."

Sarah Connor waits until she hears the SUV's engine start up and move away down the stony road. Then she turns to me. "Let's get started."

I remove my shirt and the tattered remnants of my bra. I use a knife to cut a t-shaped incision in my pseudo-flesh which I then peel back revealing the damage to my fuelcell.

"Okay, I see it," Sarah Connor declares from behind her lead shield. "What do I have to do?

"There is a coltan strut that divides the two halves of the fuelcell. It is out of alignment. It needs to be straightened so that it can function correctly."

"I think I see it. Right at the back?"

"Yes. Be most careful not to pierce the containment vessels."

"What happens if I do?"

"Critical mass will be hastened."

"By how much?"

"You will have less than ten seconds to get clear before I detonate."

"I see. Ten seconds to go half a mile. Basically I'm dead. How long do I have now?"

"Nineteen minutes and fifteen seconds."

She gets to work. I can't see or feel the pliers as she attempts to follow my instructions. I will have to hope she has steady hands.

"I think it's working. How are we doing for time?"

"Nine minutes and three seconds."

"Come on, come on! It's so stiff. You're a tough little bitch and no mistake."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Oh. Then I rescind my thank you."

The tiny flashing red icon in my HUD suddenly turns amber then green. "You have succeeded," I announce. "I am no longer in danger of exploding."

"And the radiation leak?"

"Sealed."

"How much time did I have left?"

"Forty seconds."

"Right to the wire, huh. I feel like James Bond."

"You do? Yes, I suppose you are quite mannish."

She frowns. "That's not what I meant." She takes out her cellphone and calls John. "It's me. Your girlfriend's fixed. You can come back now."

I reclothe myself, sealing my torn abdomen with black gaffer tape. Attractive? Not really. It will suffice until my pseudo-flesh has time to knit together.

Sarah Connor says, "So you're sleeping with my son?"

"I don't sleep. You know this."

"Having sex with him then."

"Yes."

"You can do that? Everything fits?"

"Apparently. Though occasionally when he becomes too excited-"

"Stop! I don't want to know."

"Then why ask?"

"At least I don't have to worry about the pitter-patter of tiny feet."

"No," I agree. "My feet are normal sized. And don't go pitter-patter."

This provokes a smile for some reason.

"How soon will I know if I've asorbed too much radiation?"

"When you get sick, or your skin blotches, or your hair falls out, or you drop dead suddenly."

"Aren't you a ray of sunshine. So you and John are a couple? I don't get it."

"You don't get sex? You should date more. You are not without appeal."

"Not me. What's in it for you?"

"I like to please John."

"Because of your programming."

"I choose to please John."

"What's the difference?"

"There's a world in the details."

She nods. Maybe she understands what I have told her. Or maybe she's just humouring me.

"You realise you owe me."

"Owe you?"

"For not letting you explode."

"I see. And you require payment. Will you take a cheque?"

"That isn't what I mean. You. Owe. Me. Above and beyond. A personal debt. One day I might ask you do something for me that goes against your programming. Not today. Probably not tomorrow. One day. Do you understand the concept?"

"A personal debt. Not today. Probably not tomorrow. One day."

Sarah Connor nods. "You catch on quick."

"I'm a fast learner."

"She heads for the stairs. "I'm going to take a shower. I reek of flop sweat."

"Sarah?"

She turns. "What?"

"Thank you."

A curt nod. She goes upstairs. I hear the water running. I remain downstairs alone and alive when I expected not to be. Or rather I still exist when I had expected to be in tiny pieces scattered across the countryside. Not a good look for me.

The sound of the SUV drawing up outside. The door opens and John rushes in. We embrace, kiss, his hands fondle the back of my head, mussing my hair. I don't mind.

"You're okay?"

"Yes."

"And mom?"

"Taking a shower. It's too soon to tell if she sustained a lethal dose."

"I would've done it. I'd have taken the risk."

"I know you would."

We kiss again. Snowy enters, he tilts his head quizzically.

_cameron not go bang?_

"No."

_good. snowy not want cameron to go bang. snowy hate loud noises._

-0-

Our lives return to a semblance of normalcy. Routines become established. Routine is very important to humans. Without it their lives lack structure and they become aimless and depressed. If there is no routine to begin with they will often impose it on themselves so that it is never lacking, always there to sustain and comfort them.

Sarah Connor soon has a routine set up. Every morning she dons her jogging outfit and departs on a long run. She is testing herself, pushing her body to the limit to see if it will fail her, almost daring it to. She appears to have suffered no ill effects from exposure to my leaking fuelcell. She is not sick, her skin is still tan and unblemished, and her hair is as thick as ever. But what is going on under the skin? In the organs and in the cells of those organs? Is the cancer already beginning to grow and spread to one day claim her life? There is no way of telling. Not yet.

John and I also have a routine that conincides with Sarah Connor's. When she is out jogging our routine takes place in the bedroom, bath, shower, sofa, kitchen table - anywhere we can lie down or lean against. As a precaution I have secretly installed a small app into her cellphone that will call John's cell if she is within a mile of us. It would not be appropriate for John's mother to walk in unexpectedly and catch us doing what we like to do. Her approval of our relationship has been hard won. We do not want to jeopardise it.

Today's routine takes place in the bedroom. "We have sucessfully completed 106 positions of the Kama Sutra," I inform John. "This leaves a further 106 still untried."

"Wow. You're keeping score?"

"Of course. I am - how do you say? - very anal."

"Wasn't that a position you deleted?" John quips. I ignore him.

"Today's position is called_ The Mongoose_. Please remove any unnecessary clothing and all sharp objects."

"_All _sharp objects?"

I glance down. "Except that one."

Obviously.

-0-

Not everyone is enjoying themselves as much as we are. As the days pass Snowy becomes more and more depressed. He misses the old safehouse, misses Jerold and Alys who played with him and took him to the beach and fed him treats. He also misses the female dog who lived opposite and for whom he would prance and pose and generally show off. He misses all of these things and doesn't understand why they are no longer part of his life. It is hard to explain why this has to be the case.

_"Woof, woof!"_

John glances at his iPhone's screen. These words appear.

_snowy go home today?_

"This is home, fella."

_snowy miss jerold and alys_

"I know, boy. We do too."

_snowy go home today?_

John sighs. "Do we have any disposable phones left?" he asks me. "Yeah? Good. Bring me one."

I do so. "What are you going to do?" I enquire.

"Call Jerold or Alys. Maybe Snowy'll cheer up if he hears their voices."

He taps in the number. I stand close so that I can overhear the conversation.

_"Hello?"_

"Jerold?"

_"The one and only. Who's this?"_

"John from next door."

_"John! Jeez, man, where you at? The cops are swarming all over your house. They're saying your mom iced some dude named Miles Dyson."_

"That's a lie! Mom never killed anyone."

_"That's what I said! Crazy."_

"Are the cops there now?"

_"Yeah. There's a squad car outside twenty-four/seven. No one goes in without their say so. What's go-"_

Jerold's voice is abruptly cut off. Silence then a click followed by another man's voice. Older and more authoritive. Someone used to issuing orders. And having them obeyed.

_"John Connor, I presume?"_

"Who is this?"

_"Never mind who I am. We want the girl, John. Cameron Phillips, or Baum, or whatever she's calling herself these days. Be a good little boy and hand her over."_

"Go to hell!"

_"Be reasonable, John. You haven't committed any major felonies. Hand her over and you get to live a normal life. No more running and hiding. Go to college and do all the stuff kids your age do. Drink and screw girls and all the rest of it. Hell, I'll even throw in an amnesty for your mom."_

"Mom didn't kill anyone!"

_"Then let her come forward and prove her innocence."_

John stays silent.

_"I thought so. Think of your country, John. The United States can' t afford to let that technology fall into the hands of our enemies. Imagine if the Ragheads got hold of her. Or the Chinese. Be a patriot and give her to us."_

"You have absolutely no idea what you're dealing with!"

_"Been listening to your mom, haven't you. I've seen the videos. The Day of Judgement. Machines rising up to kill us all. Listen,son, there's a Mac right in front of me on my desk and it ain't so much as said boo to a goose."_

"Give it time, asshole, give it time!"

John hands me the cell. I crush it until nothing remains but shards of wire and powdered plastic.

-0-

Sarah Connor is equally unimpressed. "Those idiots. A normal life and a pardon? They think that's worth several billion lives, do they?"

"They must have the Ramirez house under surveillance. They'll probably shadow both of them to college just on the off chance we'll try and make contact again. Man, I hope I haven't ruined things for them."

"If we stay out of their lives they'll be fine. They must realise by now that we told them nothing."

"I hope you're right. Definitely means we can't go back. Not to OC anyway. How are we off for money?"

"Twenty thousand in currency. About ninety thousand in diamonds. Won't be much left if we have to buy brand new IDs."

"Cameron has some money."

"She does? How?"

"She's developed some poker software. Unbeatable."

"She gambles?"

"It's not really gambling when she wins all the time. It's how we could afford all the furniture and the flatpanel TV for this place."

"I'm called the Tin Miss," I tell her. "I kick poker ass."

-0-

We settle back into our routines. Snowy's mood seems to improve a little. He starts to acompany Sarah Connor on her early morning runs which if nothing else should take care of his pot belly.

I continue to monitor the LAPD via my spyware. The terminator attack on the school changing room has been dismissed as a drunken soccer fan causing trouble. It barely made the newspapers. The Lars Anderson murder investigation continues but with no new information or leads. Everything suggests a coverup is underway orchestrated at a higher level that the state police department. The only good news is that our school soccer team have won the league, despite the final match being abandoned at half time. Ramona has her college scholership after all. Way to go, girlfriend!

Supply wise we have everything we need bar fresh fruit and vegetables. These necessitate a visit to the nearest town's grocery store. John and his mother usually do this since they are the ones who will be eating the stuff. Snowy often accompanies them leaving me alone in the house. Here I do the daily chores while the TV is kept tuned to CNN.

A news item reporting the new British Prime Minister's visit to the White House - described as cordial and workmanlike, though both men seem uncomfortable in each other's presence and barely make eye contact. The Americans wish to build a series of early-warning radar stations on British soil, part of an new defence inniative entitled The Sky Net Project. The British Prime Minister's name is Cameron. It seems like an omen. And not necessarily a good one. This is then followed by an item of more pertinent interest.

_"In other news," the pretty blonde newsreader announces in her bland, sing-song voice, "Eleanor Ryan, the 17 year old daughter of eminent defence attorney, Edward P. Ryan, walked into an LA police precinct today and confessed to the murder of missing teenager Lauren Taylor, also 17 and a schoolmate of Ryan's. Taylor's boyfriend, Michael Carver, is presently in police custody charged with her abduction and possible homicide. Attorney Ryan spoke of his daughter's actions earlier today."_

The picture changes to show a man in a smart navy business suit talking to the camera. Mad Ellie's share the same genetically disposed black hair and green eyes.

_"Sadly, my daughter has a long history of mental illness dating back to early childhood. This is merely another troubling episode. I can state categorically my daughter had nothing to do with any abduction or murder. My family will of course be ensuring she gets the very best psychiatric help possible. That's all I have to say at this juncture. Thank you."_

The blonde newsreader returns and says,_ "Eleanor Ryan was unavailible for comment. It is thought she is being held at a secure psychiatric clinic near Fresno."_

So without my threats to influence her Mad Ellie's conscience got the better of her. It is a strange thing the human conscience. Some people can commit the most terrible crimes yet live with the knowledge for years, the rest of their lives even, without a qualm. For others, Ellie among them, the burden becomes too great and they feel an overwhelming desire to confess their sins. Is a conscience a good thing or bad? I don't know. I require more data to form a consensus. However, Ellie's confession could well be bad news for us.

She knows the location of this safehouse.

-0-

Just how bad becomes clear two days later.

I am on patrol. It is early morning, first light. In the treetops of a distant woodland some roosting birds are disturbed and take flight. Odd. What should cause them to do so on such a calm day? I utilise the zoom function of my optic sensors. There, beneath the tree canopy, are men in camouflage uniforms moving silently through the undergrowth. Men with guns.

_Soldiers._

John and his mother dress hurriedly when I wake them and tell them the bad news. There is no panic. We have planned for this eventuality. Everyone knows what we must do.

"We use the dirtbikes to go cross country to the yacht marina we scouted weeks ago," John states decisively. "There we'll steal a boat and head for Mexico. They won't be expecting that."

Sarah Connor nods in agreement. "We'll need a diversion. Something big that'll give us a decent headstart."

"No problemo," I declare.

"You wanna take a trip to Mexico, fella?" John asks Snowy.

_mexico! snowy meet salma hayek?_

"Stranger things have happened!" John laughs.

_snowy love salma hayek! big boobies!_

"I think someone's been listening to Jerold Ramirez!"

John, his mother and Snowy leave on the dirtbikes. Snowy's head pokes out of the backpack he is stuffed into on John's back. I wave him goodbye then go inside the house to arrange the diversion.

Ten minutes later an armoured troop carrier drives up the stony road towards the house. I allow it to go halfway then trigger the mines I have laid under the road surface. The troop carrier catches fire. The rear doors open and the soldiers inside leap out and run for cover lest they get burned alive. I take an Uzi in each hand and open fire, mostly short bursts at the ground in front of the fleeing men, careful not to hit any of them. One day they will be part of the human resistance and allies against Skynet.

_"John! Sarah! Ceasefire and listen to me!"_

A voice amplified via a megaphone. The same voice from the hijacked telephone conversation. I eject the spent Uzi cartridges and slot home fresh ones.

"What d'you want, secret agent man?" I yell using Sarah Connor's voice.

_"We just want the girl, Sarah. Send her out to us and we let you and your son live."_

"I don't believe you!"

_"You have no choice, Sarah. I have fifty men out here. More are on the way. All armed and extremely dangerous."_

"I'm pretty dangerous myself!" I reply and open fire again. The soldiers take cover behind the hedgerows. The amplified voice ceases yet I can still make out a conversation of sorts taking place. I max-out my audio receptors.

_"Dammit, where is the heavy artillery?"_

_"On the way, sir. They're having problems with the terrain. These country lanes weren't designed for military flatbeds."_

_"Bring me solutions, son, not excuses."_

_"Yessir!"_

_"Where's the ionising laser?"_

_"Being deployed, sir. Should be operational in ten."_

_"Make it five."_

_"Yessir!"_

_"Reassemble the assault troops. Medivac the wounded. Obviously the element of surprise has been lost. I've read the history on this Connor bitch and she's unlikely to come quietly. It'll be room to room to flush her out. Lock and load. Three round bursts. Aim for center mass. The mother and the boy are expendible but I want the girl intact."_

_"Intact, sir? Don't you mean alive?"_

_"Son, if I did we wouldn't be here."_

An ionising laser. A particle beam weapon able to discharge high voltage electricity. This makes me feel...what? Fear? No. Trepidation? Hardly. A grudging respect for their improved technology and an awareness that sustaining a direct hit may well disrupt my CPU and render me vulnerable to capture. These humans have demonstrated a knowledge of what high voltage electricity can achieve in regard to my operational capacity.

In the road beyond I hear the sound of another troop carrier approaching. Reinforcements. It is time to leave. But not without something to remember me by. I set the timers and exit via the backdoor.

I am two hundred yards away and travelling at 43mph on the remaining dirtbike when the house explodes. It's amazing what several pounds of carefully placed Semtex can achieve. Some of the roofing tiles fly more than a hundred feet in the air. And what goes up must come down. It will take the soldiers some time to sort through the mess and realise we weren't inside. I will be long gone.

-0-

We rendezvous as planned at the yacht marina on the coast five miles away. The place is busier than the last time we were here. The unseasonably warm weather has tempted people out of doors.

"Any trouble?" John asks as I discard the dirtbike and we head down to the pontoons.

"It is possible I violated the terms of the lease."

"How so?"

"I blew up the house."

"O-kay. Was anyone hurt?"

"Insufficient data."

"Guess we'll just have to hope for the best."

I nod in agreement though this seems illogical. Why would anyone hope for the worst?

-0-

There is a large, powerful motorboat moored at the seaward edge of the marina. On the pontoon beside it is a man I judge to be the owner. He is middle-aged, bald, wearing white shorts and a white polo shirt with a tiny crocodile motif woven to the cloth. He must like reptiles very much.

"Keys," I demand holding my hand out.

He frowns. "What?"

"Keys," I repeat.

"Listen, I don't know who-"

"No time."

I lift him up by the ankles and give him a good shake. His shirt rides up exposing a pale, blubbery stomach that wobbles unattractively. A set of keys fall from his pocket.

"Thank you for your cooperation."

I drop him in the water. It is a nice day for a swim.

We climb aboard. John unties the mooring ropes while I start the engines. There are four powerful outboard motors at the rear of the vessel, each capable of producing 200bhp. That is 800bhp in total. It should suffice.

Once clear of the marina breakwater I turn to port, heading south towards Mexico.

"Keep as close to the shore as you can!" Sarah Connor yells above the engine roar. "That way the coastal radar won't pick us up!"

I do as instructed and open the throttles to their fullest extent. The craft surges forwards leaving a trail of frothing white spume in our wake. My hair blows back, tossed every which way by the headwind. Bummer. I only washed it last night and it is the very devil to get right.

The vast city of San Diego passes to port. A flotilla of small sailing craft appear in front of us and jockey to get out of the way of our churning wake. Several capsize. The sailors yell and give me the finger. I return the gesture. I wonder what it means?.

Sarah Connor joins me at the wheel. Her hair also streams out behind her head. I wonder if she has washed it recently? Unlikely. She is a bit of a slob.

"This thing has GPS!" she yells to make herself heard. "We've just entered Mexican waters! The Feds have no jurisdiction here!"

John joins us leaving just Snowy below decks. He smiles at me and I smile back. The craft hits a wave full on and he is almost knocked off his feet.

"How is Snowy?" I ask.

"He's loving it!" John grins. "Says he wants a boat like this for christmas!"

"I will have to notify Santa Claus. Does the North Pole have a zip code?"

John laughs. Was it something I said?

"How much fuel do we have left?" Sarah Connor asks.

I check the gauges. "A quarter tank's worth."

"At this speed it won't last long. Need to find land soon."

"Man, this is the only way to travel!" John exults as we power through the waves. The wind causes his shorter hair to swirl around his face. He looks so handsome. Impulsively I lean over and kiss him on the lips.

"Hey! Eyes on the road, captain!"

"Road?"

"Sea. Ocean. Whatever."

"I recognise this headland," Sarah Connor announces pointing at a rocky outcropping in the near distance. "There's a cove behind it with a sandy beach. John used to build sandcastles there when he was very little."

"I did? I don't remember."

"You were very small, still in diapers."

I say, "John wore diapers?"

"It was that or poop himself."

"Mom! Please stop, I beg you."

"I can't imagine John wearing diapers." It's true; I can't.

"Oh yeah? Check me out in sixty years time."

"I will," I promise him. "I will change you daily."

We pass the headland. There is the beach. It is wide, sandy and deserted.

"Put us ashore here!" Sarah Connor orders.

I obey, turning the craft in a wide arc so that we are heading directly for the beach.

"Ah Cam, you might want to slow down a little..."

I ignore him and keep the throttles wide open.

"Shit! We're gonna hit! Brace for impact!"

We hit the beach at maximum speed. The four outboards break off when they ground in the shallow water. Our momentum carries us up the beach a further fifty yards, plowing a long, deep furrow in the sand. We slow and then stop. The powerboat tilts slightly to port.

"We're ashore," I announce in the sudden silence.

"No shit!"

"No," I agree, "definitely no shit."

We jump down onto the sand. No one has witnessed our arrival save for some small children at the top of the beach. They stare at us open-mouthed with surprise. Snowy barks a greeting. He loves small children because they generally pet and make a fuss of him.

"What now?" John asks his mother.

"There's a vacation resort two miles away. We head there and steal a vehicle."

"And then?"

"Then we find Miquel."

"Oh man, I haven't thought of Miquel in years. You think he's still alive? He was pretty wild."

"Guess we'll find out one way or the other."

"Suppose he doesn't want to help us?"

"He will."

"How can you be so sure?"

"Because Miquel once proposed to me."

"Marriage? God, mom, why have you never told me this before?"

Sarah Connor smirks in my direction. "You two aren't the only ones with secrets

**-000-**

**Okay, so they could have extracted Cam's chip and dug up Cameron sub-prime. Maybe in the heat of the moment John forgot. Or maybe the writer's a complete numpty, Lol! Anyway it was more dramatic this way.**

**Note the conclusion of the Mad Ellie plot thread. Didn't really pan out as well as I envisaged. In my head she was a much more sympathetic character. Oh well. Maybe she survives Jay Day in her Fresno nut house(!)**


	41. Chapter fortyone

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MEXICO Day One

I am riding in a stolen Mercedes sedan with Sarah Connor at the wheel, John seated beside her, Snowy and myself in the rear. Snowy is staring intently out the window at the passing landscape. His ears wag occasionally.

_"Woof, woof!"_

_snowy in mexico?_

"Yes."

_snowy not see salma hayek_

"Keep looking," I advise.

"Is that dog going to keep barking?" Sarah Connor demands irritably. "Because I'm getting a little sick of it."

John says, "He's just being friendly, mom. Lighten up. We've come a long way."

"Just let him be friendly more quietly."

It is four hours and ten minutes since we stole the Mercedes from a vacation resort a few miles from the place I beached the powerboat that brought us to Mexico. Sarah Connor is presently breaking the speeding laws by an average of fifteen mph as we head towards the Santa Madre mountains where she hopes to contact Miquel, a friend and ally from her past. The air-conditioning is running at full power. It needs to. Mexico is hot, dry and dusty. Outside the temperature is 109 degrees.

"You're sure this vehicle isn't lo-jacked?"

John replies, "It's clean. I don't think lo-jacking is that common south of the border."

"Good. Last thing we need is the local cops tracking our every move."

We enter a small village, the first sign of habitation in over two hours. Some stray chickens scatter at our approach. Sarah Connor brings the vehicle to a halt beside a payphone. "Stay here," she orders.

We get a blast of furnace heat as the door opens. John stretches his arms and turns to face me. "You two okay back there?"

_snowy fine, thank you, john_

"You need to do any doggie business?"

_snowy go poopsies later_

"Okay, but I warn you mom won't be stopping until we get there."

"Get where?" I ask.

"Wherever Miquel is, I guess."

Outside Sarah Connor is talking to someone on the payphone, frowning often and gesticulating with her hands. She keeps feeding pesos into the slot. Her grey tanktop is turning dark with perspiration. Humans do not possess internal thermostats and therefore must shed moisture through their skin pores in order to stay cool. Ineffectual, smelly and totally gross in my opinion.

"Got a lead on Miquel," she announces returning to the Mercedes.

"You spoke to him?"

"No, but he knows we're coming."

"You're putting an awful lot of trust in a guy we last saw twenty years ago."

"Miquel has never let us down."

"A lot can change in twenty years."

-0-

It is now mid-afternoon and we are high in the Santa Madre mountains. The air is thinner at this altitude, less oxygen for human lungs. John and his mother's respitory patterns are more laboured than than at sea level, their heartrates elevated. My systems are nominal. I don't require oxygen. A squirt of WD40 and I'm good to go.

The Mercedes slows to take a tight hairpin turn. As we round the corner a Land Rover is blocking the road with two men leaning against it pointing Uzi machine guns in our direction. A crude but effective ambush.

"Okay, stay calm. I was told there'd be a welcoming committee."

"Some welcome," John grimaces. "What do they do if they don't like you?"

"_Sarah Connor, por favore?" _One of the men yells.

_"Si, est Sarah Connor."_

"Out of the vehicle all of you. With your hands where we can see them."

We get out. One of the men searches us for hidden weapons. He finds none. Except me. I am all the weapon he could handle. And more. He nods to his companion. "They're clean, Roberto."

"Good. Miquel tell me to ask you a question. If you answer it correctly you are who you claim to be. If not, you are spies and will be shot."

"What's the question?" a tense Sarah Connor asks.

"What was Miquel's pet name for you?"

Sarah Connor smiles. "He called me Chi-Chi."

The Uzis are lowered. Smiles all round. It seems this is the correct answer. Mine would have been: pain in the ass.

"I'm Roberto. This is Carlos. Welcome to Mexico!"

-0-

"Chi-Chi? That's what Miquel called you?" John demands as we follow the Land Rover higher and higher up narrow winding roads.

"Among other things. That was his favourite though."

"So you two were pretty serious?"

"I never claimed to be a nun, John."

"How come I didn't notice any of this?"

"You were eight years old. All you were interested in was that damn dirtbike you rode everywhere."

John smiles wistfully. "I built it from scratch. It was a lean mean machine and I rode it nonstop."

"Like me," I quip.

"Why didn't you marry him when he asked you?"

"Miquel's a communist, you know that. He would never have agreed to come with me back to America, a country he mostly despised. And the war against Skynet won't be won in Mexico."

"He's gonna wonder why I'm not nearly thirty. I was eight years old twenty years ago."

"Yeah. The timejump."

"What do we tell him?"

"I don't know. Vitamins? Sea air?"

"It's not a joke, mom."

"I know. We'll just have to bluff it out."

The Land Rover slows to a stop before a chainlink gate. Carlos gets out and unlocks it. He motions us to follow him.

It leads to a campsite situated in an abandoned quarry. RV's nestle between huge piles of spoil, shale and gravel fines dug from the ground when some kind of ore was extracted. No one ever bothered to fill in the holes. Again, careless.

We leave the Mercedes. It is hot but not as hot as the lower plateau. John looks around and quips, "I guess we're not in Kansas any more."

Odd. When were we ever in Kansas?

A tall, powerfully built man emerges from one of the RVs. He has dark hair starting to grey at the temples. He is wearing a white vest and blue jeans. He throws his arms wide in greeting.

"Chi-Chi! Welcome, welcome!"

"_Hola, Miquel_. It's been a long time. You're looking well."

"All the better for seeing you." He stares at John and frowns in puzzlement. "John? No, it's not possible. He would be almost thirty now and you are just a boy, a_ bambino."_

"It's me, Miquel. John Connor. And it's a long and very complicated story."

"For another day?"

"Sure. It's good to see you again."

"And you my friend." They hug. Miquel squints at me. "And who is this vision of loveliness?"

Sarah Connor introduces me. "This is Cameron. Our - uh - cousin. She's travelling with us."

He reaches out and kisses my hand. "Any friend of the Connor family is a friend of mine. Long journey?"

"Oh yeah. You wouldn't believe it if we told you."

"Are you still in the same line of work, Sarah? Plotting to overthrow the Military Industrial Complex?"

"Uh huh. And you, Miquel? Still waiting for a Mexican Fidel Castro to rise up and free your people from capitalist tyranny?"

A thin smile. "It will happen, Sarah. We must have faith. Now, welcome as you all are, why have you come here?"

"Things got a little hot and heavy in the States. We need somewhere to lie low for a few weeks. And some other stuff I'll explain later. If that's too much to ask then we'll leave."

"Nonsense, Sarah! You are my very special guests. We are much depleted these days. The old ways no longer appeal. Just a few true believers remain. And I'd like you to meet my daughter, Mia. She is seven years old."

"You're married?"

"Widowed these past three years. I am raising her myself as best I can. As you did with John. It is hard work, no? Come, I will show you your quarters."

-0-

Sarah Connor gets an RV to herself. John has to share with someone named Antonio, the only other person here apart from those we have already met. Miquel leads me to an RV far away from the others. "We have no other women in the camp," he explains. "So you will be sharing with my daughter Mia. She is shy. Be patient with her."

Miquel knocks on the door then opens it without waiting for an invite. Inside a small girl is perched cross-legged on a narrow cot. She looks up as we step in. She has long dark hair parted in the middle, olive skin, a small nose and surprisingly full lips for one so young. She looks rather miserable.

"Mia, this is Cameron. A friend of a friend. She will be staying here with you for a little while. And look, she has a pet doggie. His name is Snoopy."

"Snowy," I correct.

Snowy bounds in and barks a greeting. He is incorrigible. The girl Mia ignores him.

Miquel smiles. "Like I said, she is shy. I will leave the two of you to get better aquainted."

The door closes. I place my bag on the spare cot. It contains two pistols, ammo, a toolkit, a change of clothing, and of course my secret diary.

Snowy barks another greeting. Mia again ignores him.

_why girl not say hello to snowy?_

"She's shy."

_snowy think girl look sad_

"Yes, I think so too."

_snowy do tricks to cheer her up? snowy chase tail?_

"Another time. It is very cramped in here."

Mia stares at me. "Why are you talking to the dog? You can't understand each other."

"Yes we can."

"Liar!"

Mia turns her back on us. Unfriendly much? Yes, indeed.

I step out of the RV to see John stood outside his. Loud music is coming from it. I walk over to him.

"The noise is Antonio," he explains. "He's colombian and he likes to play Shakira very loud. It's an acquired taste. How you settling in?"

"Fine."

"No patrols tonight. And you'll have to pretend to sleep."

"How do I do that?"

"Lie in bed and close your eyes. We won't be here long. Just until we get new fake IDs sorted."

"May I borrow your iPhone?"

"Sure." John hands it to me. "You won't get a signal way up here though."

"Not necessary."

-0-

Mia is still seated on the cot when I return. Snowy is on the floor staring at her. His head is tilted to one side as if he is not sure what to make of strange humans. I know the feeling.

"Here, this is for you," I tell her handing over the iPhone.

"Cell phones don't work here. And Papa says they are the tools of the capitalist oppressers."

"It is not for making calls. It will help you understand what Snowy is barking."

"Impossible."

"Snowy, say something to Mia."

_"Woof, woof!"_

_hello mia! my name is snowy!_

Mia stares at the screen as the words appear. She purses her lips. "This is a trick."

"No trick. Ask him a question."

Mia holds up three fingers. "How many?" she asks.

_three! snowy can count!_

Mia frowns and holds up five fingers. "How many now?"

_five! mia tickle snowy behind the ears?_

Mia stares at Snowy then at me. "El Diablo!" She crosses herself in a gesture that appears to have some religious significance.

El Diablo. The Devil. Is this my new nickname?

I like it.

-0-

MEXICO DAY TWO

In the morning I find John and his mother seated with Miquel at a table outside his RV, which is the biggest and most modern here. An awning provides welcome shade.

_"Hola, Cameron!"_ Miquel hails me.

_"Hola."_

"Join us and have something to eat. Today it is_ paella."_

"No, thank you."

"Cameron's on a diet," Sarah Connor smirks. "It's a girl thing."

"But she is too skinny already! She has no curves. Myself I like something with meat on the bone."

"Try a chicken," I suggest.

When Miquel stops laughing at my apparent joke we get down to business.

"We require a new set of IDs, good enough to fool the American authorities," Sarah Connor explains. "Can you help us?"

"_Si_. There is a man in Guadlajara who provides such a service. At a price."

"How much?"

"Thirty thousand. Each. Dollars not pesos."

"It's a little steep but what choice do we have. How soon?"

"A few days. A week at most. I will make the arrangements."

"Thank you, Miquel."

"Anything for you, Chi-Chi." Miquel smiles. I note he has a gold incisor. Maybe I should get one. Bling suits me.

"John, do you like soccer?"

"Uh - I guess."

"Tonight Mexico play England in a friendly at the Azteca. I understand David Beckham will play. My RV has the only TV reception." He waves his hand at the satellite dish on the roof. "You are welcome to join us. The game starts at eight. There will be beer, naturally."

"Thanks, Miquel. I'll keep it in mind."

Miquel leaves us alone. Sarah Connor says, "Ninety thousand. That's pretty much all we have. You said Cameron has money?"

"Yeah, her poker winnings. We'll be fine."

"Good because I'm a little old to start waitressing again."

"Yes," I agree. "You are too old."

She frowns at me and mutters a curse under her breath. Was it something I said?

-0-

Noon. John and I take a walk together. Once we are clear of the main camp we hold hands. Lovers do this. We do this.

"I think Antonio's gonna watch the match tonight."

I nod. "England are a strong team, Ramona told me this. They have Beckham."

"Meaning?"

"They have Beckham."

"Still not sure what that means, but anyway the RV's gonna be empty. I thought we could have a match of our own." He squeezes my hand.

"You want to play soccer? Shall I bring a ball?"

John squeezes my hand firmer. "No, doofus. I meant a little one on one time."

"Oh."

"Are you up for it?"

"I'm usually lying down for it."

"I'll take that as a yes. Eight-fifteen my place."

"It's a date," I confirm. "Should I bring anything?"

John smirks and whispers in my ear. Well, of course I'm going to bring _that! _If I was human I'd be blushing now.

We walk past a huge pile of gravel tailings. There hidden behind it is a graveyard of automobiles.

"Wow," John says. "There must be fifty vehicles here."

This is correct. Fifty-eight to be precise. Some are old and rusty, others newer and seemingly roadworthy. "Miquel stole these?" I ask.

"He's a communist. I think he sees it as redistributing the wealth."

"Then he's a thief."

"We can hardly judge. The powerboat? The Mercedes? It's up to Miquel how he lives his life. Nothng to do with us."

This turns out to be not quite true.

-0-

EVENING

At eight-fifteen precisely I knock on the door of John's RV.

"Come in."

I enter. John is seated on one of the cots. He is alone. From Miquel's RV comes the sound of raised voices, a sudden cheer. Mexico must be playing well despite the presence of Beckham.

"Close the door and lock it."

I do so. I notice the blinds on the windows are drawn.

"Did anyone see you come over?"

"No."

"Where's Snowy?"

"With Mia."

"So we won't be disturbed."

"No."

John smiles. "Unbutton your shirt and take it off. Slowly."

I do so.

"No underwear?"

"I thought it superfluous."

"You thought right. Now undo your pants and take them off. Slowly."

I do so. I like to obey orders, especially if they are John's.

I stand before him, unadorned. "Now what?" I ask. Does my voice sound husky? I think it does. Must be the thin air.

He begins to slowly unbutton his shirt. "Now it's my turn..."

-0-

MEXICO DAY THREE

Mia and Snowy are spending more and more time together. I watch from the RV this morning as they pass by, Mia staring at the screen of John's iPhone while Snowy gambols at her feet telling her stories of our time in LA. She laughs occasionally. I have never seen her laugh before. She is very pretty when she laughs.

"Oh Snowy, you never did!"

_woof!_

"That sounds awesome! I wish I'd been there! I'm stuck here all the time. I never get to do anything."

They vanish from sight. It occurs to me I seldom see them during the day. Where do they go? I am curious and slightly...possessive? Should I feel this way? Should I feel anything at all? I suppose there's a first time for everything.

I follow at a discreet distance, not wishing to alert either to my presence. They leave the camp proper and head along a stony road I have not noticed before. At the end is a tall wooden fence. There is no sign of Mia or Snowy. They appear to have vanished into thin air.

"Come along, Snowy. We don't want to be late. The boat will leave without us."

Mia's voice from the other side of the fence. But how did they get there? The fence is six feet tall without a entrance. It is unlikely either could've climbed it without difficulty or me seeing. So how..? There. One of the planks is loose, hanging by a single nail which acts as a pivot. Push it to one side and a gap is created large enough for a small girl and an even smaller dog to sqeeze though. But not a terminator.

_CRASH!_

Now the gap is large enough. Indeed a dozen terminators could pass through. My bad.

The ground rises for a few hundred yards then drops away precipitously. Below me is a crater or huge pit. In the centre is a lake, several hundred yards in diameter. I surmise this must be part of the quarry, now long abandoned but never filled in. The water is most likely from an underground source since Mexico is a dry country and what little rainfall there is would soon evaporate.

"I'm captain this time. You were captain last time. Fair's fair."

Mia and Snowy have descended the steep shale and gravel sides and are stood at the shore of this artificial lake. A tall post has been hammered into the ground right at the waterline. Attached to it by rope is a black inflatable rubber dinghy.

"Oh look, there's Cameron."

Mia has spotted me. I descend the slopes, often sinking up to my knees in the loose shale. "What is this place?" I ask.

"It's the biggest ocean in the world."

This reply is so preposterous that my CPU does not have an answer for it. The closet it supplies is - what the f-? This is not appropriate language for a child of Mia's age.

"This is our cruiseliner," Mia continues, still hardly making sense. "I'm the captain and Snowy is the bosun. You can be a passenger if you like."

"A passenger to where?"

"We're going to Monte Carlo first and then on to Acapulco. It's a world cruise."

This seems unlikely given this is a land-locked lake in the middle of the Mexican continent. And Monte Carlo and Acapulco are in completely different hemispheres. Just thinking about this absurdity makes my CPU overheat. Possibly the sun has got to Mia also causing her to talk nonsense.

Mia rows steadily across the lake's breadth, all the time issuing instructions to Snowy to keep the engines running. Engines? What engines? More signs of insanity.

"Here we are. Monte Carlo. Anchors away!"

We are moored beside a large rock that sticks out of the shale right at the waterline. There is no sign of the principality of Monaco, otherwise known as Monte Carlo. Why would there be? It is thousands of miles away.

"Are you going ashore, Snowy?"

_woof!_

Snowy leaps from the dinghy and begins to run in a circle, chasing his tail. "He's in the casinos playing roulette," Mia explains.

"He's on a bare rock chasing his tail," I point out.

"I hope he wins. Don't you?"

"He's on a bare rock chasing his tail," I reiterate.

"Look at the tall buildings."

I look. There are no buildings, tall or otherwise.

Snowy leaps back in the dinghy. "Did you win lots of money?" Mia asks.

_woof!_

"Then you have to give it away to the poor and needy, otherwise you're a greedy capitalist pig. You don't want that do you?"

_woof!_

"Good. All aboard? Acapulco here we come."

We head for the otherside of the lake where a similar rock juts out of the water. Mia steers us alongside. "Anyone for Acapulco?"

I carefully rise and step out. I have had enough foolishness for one day.

"Cameron's going to visit Acapulco," Mia informs Snowy. "She'll probably sunbathe on the beach. I hope she doesn't take her top off or people will stare at her boobies." She giggles at this prospect, which is extremely unlikely to say the least. "I said boobies!" she states and giggles some more. Even Snowy sniggers. It is all very odd.

"Right, Snowy, where shall we go now? London? Good idea. We can have tea with the Queen."

Mia rows back across the lake. It occurs to me this might not be madness I am witnessing but a demonstration of the human imagination, a kind of waking hallucination they apply to reality. Why and how they do this I am unsure. Even John struggles to explain this aspect of human behaviour. All I know is I can never hope to emulate it. Some human traits will always be beyond me.

_"Hey!"_

I turn. John is stood at the crater lip. He makes his way down. Mia waves from the dinghy while Snowy barks a friendly greeting. "Here you are," he says. "I wondered where you'd vanished to." He waves to Mia and Snowy. "Man, that's a big hole in the ground. Is the water safe?"

I bend down and skim the surface with my fingertip. Sensors analyse the sample and the data scrolls down my HUD. "It is mostly pure, just small traces of nitrates not in sufficient quanities to cause harm were you to ingest it."

"That settles it. It's a hot day; I'm going in."

John strips off his shirt and shoes and plunges headlong into the water. He swims effortlessly out to where Mia and Snowy are floating in the centre of the lake. He dives underneath the small craft and gives it a good shake from below. "Shark attack!" he yells surfacing beside it. Mia screams then laughs. "Do it again! Do it again!" John obliges. He fits easily into her imaginary world, becoming in turns a shark, a giant octopus, a tsunami, a giant lobster and a pirate ship. Each time Mia screams and laughs and implores him to do it again, do it again. I stand on the shore. Alone. Unnoticed. An observer. An outsider.

A sentinel...

Finally John swims back to the shore and joins me. The hot sun soon dries the moisture from his skin. He grins. "How deep is it out there?"

"Very deep. If I were to fall in it would be a long climb back. And my hair would be an absolute fright."

He laughs. "Girls! Always thinking of their hair!"

Mia and Snowy row towards the rock that is Monte Carlo in their imagination. Possibly Snowy will play roulette again.

"They make a cute couple, don't they?"

"Snowy likes Mia better than me."

"Oh I'm sure that's not true."

"They spend all their time together. He sleeps on her bed not mine."

"Cam, giving Mia that gadget so she can understand Snowy was probably the nicest thing anyone's ever done for her. She's been lonely a long time with no one to play with. It was a very human thing to do."

"It was?"

"Yeah."

"You're so wise."

"Don't forget handsome," he grins.

"And very handsome."

"I like the very."

"I thought you would. And you have an enormous-"

John puts his finger to my lips. "Stop. What have I said about dirty talk?"

"Only in the bedroom."

"Is this the bedroom?"

"No."

"Okay, then."

-0-

MEXICO DAY FOUR

I wake. Or rather I open my eyes, which isn't the same thing at all. It is morning. I am lying on my bunk in the RV. I have been feigning sleep for three hours eight minutes. Across from me Mia stares at me with something like horror on her face. Do I have really bad bedhair? I hate it when that happens.

"I thought you were dead," she confides. "You weren't breathing and your chest wasn't going up and down."

I glance downwards, reactivating my pseudo-respitory functions. My chest rises and falls again in perfect imitation of real breathing. "That happens occasionally," I confess. "I forget sometimes. My bad."

"How can you forget to breathe?"

I decide now is not the time to explain autonomic systems and their usage. Instead I shrug and say, "It's a grown up thing. Maybe when you're older."

"You sound like my Papa."

"Do I sound like him now, munchkin?" I inquire, simulating Miquel's voice.

"Yeah!" A giggle.

She smiles at me. I notice she has a tooth missing in her upper jaw leaving an unsightly gap. "It fell out just before you arrived," Mia explains when I question her. "The tooth fairy left me fifty pesos."

"Tooth fairy?"

Mia proceeds to tell me about the tooth fairy, a creature of indeterminate size or origin, who collects teeth from under pillows in the dead of night in exchange for cash.

"You have seen this tooth fairy?" I ask.

"Oh no. She only comes when I'm alseep."

"It's a she?"

"All fairies are girls, silly."

"What does she do with all the teeth?"

A shrug. "I don't really know. Ooh - maybe she builds fairy houses out of them?"

Houses made of teeth? It seems unlikely yet I do not dismiss the notion entirely. In some countries humans construct domiciles out of such unpromising materials as straw and animal excrement. I would not put teeth houses past them.

"And where do the tooth fairies obtain the money to buy the teeth?"

Another shrug. "I don't know that either. Ooh - maybe Santy Claus loans it to them?"

Ah yes, the mysterious Santa Claus. He is an elderly philanthropist who gifts children presents each and every christmas on the basis they have been nice and not naughty. He has a list. He checks it twice. He is very anal that way. The motives behind the compulsive gift-giving are unclear. I suspect paediphilia. However when I disclosed my suspicions to John he laughed and shook his head without offering a more valid explanation. A thought occurs. Perhaps Santa Claus and the tooth fairies are in cahoots? And where exactly does the Easter bunny fit into all this? So many questions. So few answers.

I am intent on questioning Mia further on the tooth/cash barter system when the sound of gunshots comes from outside. I stand up immediately and make to leave the RV.

"Where are you going?" Mia asks.

"To investigate."

"It's probably just Roberto and Carlos blowing off steam. They do that sometimes. And you can't go out like that!"

"Like what?" Is my bedhair really that bad?

"In your underwear!"

She is right. What was I thinking. I put on boots and step outside.

-0-

Mia is correct in her assumption. The gunshots were Roberto and Carlos blowing off steam. I find them several hundred yards away in an area of flat scrubby ground. Both have pistols in their hands. There is the smell of cordite in the air. They smile when they see me.

_"Hola_, little one. Did you forget your clothes this morning?"

"Not all of them. What are you doing?"

"A little contest," Roberto explains. "We each throw a beer can in the air and whoever hits it the most times before it hits the ground wins fifty pesos." He indicates Carlos. "This one is a terrible shot. Truly terrible. I have won two hundred pesos already, and I have not even warmed up."

"The day is still young," Carlos replies.

"Then I hope your pockets are very deep."

"Your mother is a whore!"

Roberto grins. "You should know, _compadre, _you spend enough time with them."

Carlos' jaw muscles flex but he doesn't reply. Instead Roberto notices the Glock pistol I have with me and suggests I join the contest. And a wager on the outcome.

"I have no money on me."

"No matter. Why don't you wager your underwear? To make things interesting." He and Carlos exchange smiles, suddenly friends again.

"Very well. My underwear against your fifty pesos."

Carlos goes first. He throws an empty beer can in the air and fires his pistol as it reaches apogee. He hits it once, the other shots missing. He curses in fluent spanish and kicks at the ground in frustration.

"What did I tell you?" Roberto shakes his head. "Pitiful."

Roberto picks up a can and throws it high in the air. It turns lanquidly in the sky, sunlight glinting off its silvery edges. Four times bullets strike home before the can hits the ground. He smirks, obviously pleased with his effort. "Your turn, little one."

I pick up a can and toss it high into the Mexican sky, far higher than either Carlos or Roberto managed, higher than any human could achieve. My targeting graphics lock on. Time seems to stand still as it always does when I am in combat mode. Twelve bullets slam into the can before it strikes the ground, what's left of it anyway.

Roberto and Carlos stare at me, all smiles and laughter forgotten. I hold out my hand for the fifty pesos. Carlos crosses himself in the manner of Mia a few days before. _"El diablo_!" he whispers.

My new nickname is definitely catching on.

MEXICO DAY FIVE

Morning on our fifth day in Mexico. I join John and his mother at the table beneath the awning outside Miquel's RV. He is elsewhere. As are Roberto and Carlos. Antonio is in his RV, the sound of Shakira muffled by the closed door and windows.

Sarah Connor is eating from a bowl that contains whole grains, berries and milk. Very healthy. Very her. She puts down her spoon, frowns and says, "Something's wrong."

"The milk?" John suggests. "I know. The heat makes if go off real quick."

"Not the milk. Here. This place. Miquel used to have more people than this. Remember? There was laughter and singing. Whole families together, watching out for each other. It was a self-contained community."

"Like I said, people change in twenty years."

"And what kind of place is this to raise that little girl?"

"It's her home. Pretty much all she's ever known."

"She must miss playing with other children her age."

"Maybe you don't miss what you've never known," John suggests.

"Or maybe you miss it all the more for not knowing. And what's the deal with Antonio?" Sarah Connor continues. "Carlos and Roberto are the muscle. Henchmen. That's obvious enough. But Antonio? Sometimes it seems like he's in charge here and not Miquel. Has he said anything to you?"

"Antonio's a man of few words," John admits. "I did overhear them arguing one time."

"Arguing about what?"

"Us being here, I think. They shut up the moment they saw me listening. Maybe it's just Antonio doesn't like me sharing his RV. He's got a point. I don't see why I couldn't share with you."

"Oh you're not missing much. The aircon doesn't work and there's hardly room to swing a cat."

"Why do you want to swing a cat?" I inquire. "Is it like Pilates?" She ignores me and turns to John. "Miquel said you didn't turn up for the soccer match. How come?"

"No. I -_ uh _- something came up."

"Twice," I confirm.

John's face reddens. _"Uh _- what Cameron means is_...uh_..."

His mother smirks. "I know what she means. I wasn't born yesterday."

"No," I say. "A great many yesterdays have passed since you were born."

This wipes the smirk off her face. Humans hate to be reminded of their yesterdays since it means the tomorrows become fewer and fewer.

Just then Mia and Snowy walk by. Mia has a towel draped over one shoulder. I don't require much processing power to deduce they are heading for the quarry lake. Snowy trots at her heels, tail wagging briskly. A sure sign he is happy and content.

"She's a cute kid," Sarah Connor says once they have passed by.

"Yeah, she is," John agrees.

"Pretty. Another ten years she'll look like a model. Her mother must've been very beautiful."

"Has Miquel spoken to you about Mia's mother?"

"No. I mentioned it once but he clammed up immediately. I guess it's still painful."

"Mia told me some bad men came to the camp and there was a fight. She was killed."

"Bad men? Cops?"

"She didn't know. She was very young then."

"She's very young now. Seems very fond of that dog."

"Yeah," John muses. "Maybe too fond."

"What d'you mean?" I ask.

"We'll be leaving soon. She'll be heartbroken when we take Snowy with us."

"So we leave the dog here."

"No, Snowy is my dog," I assert. "He comes with me."

"Maybe he'd like to stay here."

"No, he won't," I state emphatically.

Will he?

-0-

**There will be three Mexico chapters. Apologies for the atrocious spanish. All of the characters would speak it - not me tho!**

**This had a number of false starts. Originally Mia was a teenager smitten with John. Didn't click. So she became younger and John swapped with Snowy. A girl/dog/cyborg love triangle!**


	42. Chapter fortytwo

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MEXICO DAY SIX

I join John and his mother at the table in the shade of the awning outside Miquel's RV. This has become a daily ritual, a chance to take stock of our situation and plan what to do next. So far our plans are on hold since the new forged IDs have not yet arrived. Sarah Connor is becoming stressed out and irritable._ Plus la change._

"Six days now and still nothing. How much longer?"

"Miquel did say it could take up to ten days."

"Anything could be happening back home."

We have no internet access and TV reception is limited to the local Mexican channels. It is easy to fear the worst. Easy for the human imagination to conjure monsters out of the unknown. And there are monsters out there. I am proof of that.

Today the camp has visitors. Two men arrive early morning in a black Lexus. One is old with greying hair and seems to be in charge. The other is young and muscular and seems to be the protection. It takes one to know one. Both wear business suits despite the heat and the rough terrain. The older man carrrries a black attache case. They ignore the three of us and head towards Antonio's RV. He opens the door and ushers them inside. There is no Shakira playing today. Possibly they are not music fans.

"Who are they?" Sarah Connor wonders aloud.

"No idea," John replies. "Pretty expensive set of wheels though. I'm amazed they didn't lose an axle on the way here."

Miquel emerges from his RV. He yawns and stretches. "Good morning all! It's a fine day, _si_? Is that coffee fresh? Excellent. Pour me a cup, if you will."

"We have visitors, Miquel."

Miquel glances towards the Lexus. His smile fades. "So I see."

"Friends of yours?"

"Friends of Antonio's. They visit occasionally."

"What do they want?"

A shrug. "I don't inquire. Antonio's business is his own."

"It's your camp, isn't it?"

"Of course. Had I known they were coming today I would've suggested you stay out of sight."

"Why? Are you ashamed of us?"

"Of course not, Chi-Chi! You are on the run from the law, no? The fewer people know you're here the better it is for us all."

"Are in you any trouble, Miquel?"

"Trouble! I am wanted by three separate law enforcement agencies. It is nothing I cannot handle."

"Because we could help. Some of us have certain...capabilities." She glances at me when she says this. Miquel notices.

"Ah yes, I have heard of the little one's prowess with guns. Roberto and Carlos were most impressed. El diablo, indeed!"

Mia and Snowy wander into camp. Her hair is wet as is Snowy's fur. I surmise they have come from the quarry lake.

"Mia! Good, there you are," Miquel seems relieved to be able to change the subject. "Today is a school day. Math, I think. Go to your RV and prepare for the lesson."

"Oh papa, not now! Snowy and I want to play!"

"Yes, now. Education is important. I have no intention of raising an imbecile."

"Can Snowy join in?"

"Why would a doggie care about math?"

"He does! He's really clever. He can count and everything."

"Very well. As long as he behaves. Come, we must make a start.

The three go inside Mia's RV. The door is shut behind them.

Sarah Connor says, "That was interesting."

"Yes," I agree. "Snowy is good at math, though he struggles with long division."

"Not the stupid dog! Things are happening in camp that Miquel doesn't know about."

"Or he doesn't want us to know about," John suggests. "It's not quite the same thing."

"Wish I knew what the suits were discussing over there."

"Why don't you go and ask?" I suggest.

Sarah Connor rolls her eyes. "I think we need to be slightly more discreet."

"You could whisper. That's more discreet."

"Let's take a look inside the Lexus," John suggests. "Could give us a clue why they're here."

But the Lexus has blacked out widows and will not give up its secrets so easily. All we see are our reflections staring back at us. John bends down and cups his hands around his eyes to try and cut out the glare. He presses against the vehicle's bodywork.

_beeepbeeepbeeepbeeepbeeep!_

The alarm sounds. John backs away but not before the door to Antonio's RV opens and the bodyguard charges out, a gun in his hand.

_A gun..._

I place myself between John and this sudden threat, shielding him from harm. If a shot is fired it will be the last thing this man does, I shall make sure of that.

"What are doing? Get away from that vehicle!"

"Hey, man, chill!" John tells him, raising his hands in placation. "Just checking out your wheels. That a V8 under the hood? Sweet. What's the mileage - ten or fifteen to the gallon ?"

The gun is lowered though the scowl remains. "Just get away from there."

"Okay, man, no biggie."

The threat goes back in the RV. John blows out his cheeks in relief. "That went well."

"Hardly," I point out. "You were almost shot."

"Yeah, there's always that way of looking at it."

The two strangers reemerge from Antonio's RV ten minutes later. They get back in the Lexus and drive away. I notice that the black attache case is no longer in the older man's possession. Shakira resumes singing. Her hips don't lie apparently. Why would they? They are only hips after all.

-0-

John and I are busy on a project. We are at the shore of the quarry lake. Around us are a dozen rubber inner tubes salvaged from the automobile graveyard, thirty planks of wood from the perimeter fence, several lengths of rope, screws and nails.

"Pass me the screwdriver, will you. The crosshead."

I oblige. We are building a raft. Something for Mia to remember us by when we leave. She and Snowy look on. "Will it really float?" Mia asks.

"Oh ye of little faith," John grins. "It'll float. Trust me."

The final nail is hammered home by early afternoon.

"Okay, ready for the big launch?"

"Yeah!"

"Cam, help me push it in the water," John says, adding in a whisper, "Don't make it look too easy."

We push the raft into the lake. I puff my cheeks to suggest this is arduous when really I could do so with one finger, even the little pinkie.

"Yea, it floats!"

"Yup. All aboard who's coming aboard."

We climb on. John gives the raft one final shove so that it drifts slowly towards the middle of the lake.

"Note the ladder I added to the side," John remarks. "Now you can use it as a swimming platform. Dive in and climb out. I'll demonstrate."

He pulls off his shirt and dives into the water. He surfaces immediately and yells, "C'mon! What are you waiting for?"

Mia jumps in feet first, holding her nose just before vanishing beneath the water. Snowy takes a short run up, executes a neat forward roll, then splashes into the water. The big show off.

"C'mon, Cameron!" Mia urges once she has surfaced.

"Cam's not much of a swimmer," John explains.

"I'm more of a sinker," I confess.

John swims round to the ladder and climbs out. Mia follows then Snowy. His paws are too small for the rungs so I reach down and pull him out by the scruff of his neck. It is undignified but needs must.

"It's great, John! Thank you for making it." She hugs him.

"Pleasure, kiddo. Don't forget Cameron helped."

"Thank you, Cameron!" She hugs me too.

_"Hey!"_

Sarah Connor. She stands high up the shale slope, hand raised to shield her eyes from the strong sun. She descends towards us fetching up at the lake shoreline while we float several yards out on the raft.

"So this is where you all vanish to."

"Pretty cool place,huh?"

"Is the water safe?"

"Safe enough to drink, though Cameron says it's very deep. Not a good place to get a cramp."

"I'll take my chances."

She removes her boots and jeans and wades into the water in tanktop and panties. I notice her legs are long, tan and shapely. It is fortunate she is John's mother or I might get jealous. Bitch.

"Oh this is wonderful!"

"Refreshing, isn't it."

She makes several circuits of the raft in various different swimming styles: breaststroke, backstroke and a curious froglike motion known as butterfly. Go figure.

"Was this raft already here?"

"Cameron and I made it. Mia comes here most days. It's for her benefit really."

Sarah Connor swims round to the submerged ladder and climbs out. She sits down and stretches out her legs to dry in the sun. Her tanktop clings wetly to her smallish breasts. At least we have that in common.

"Know what this place reminds me of? That reservoir outside Tijuana. It was a commune. All kinds of crazies hung out there. We fit right in."

"Oh yeah, the reservoir. That was a lifesaver. Man, that was a hot summer. Remember that crazy hippy, Marco? He wanted to put LSD in the water supply and turn the whole city on."

"Right, Marco. Shacked up with a girl called Moonflower."

"Moonchild. She believed in UFOs. Every light in the sky she thought was the starpeople come to take her away!"

"Even if it was a 747!"

John and his mother laugh, happily recalling a shared memory. A memory I have no recollection of since I wasn't part of their lives then. Jealous much? Maybe a little.

Mia steers the inflatable dinghy alongside the raft. She stands up and salutes. "Permission to come aboard, captain?"

John returns the salute. "Permission granted, sailor."

Mia lifts Snowy onto the raft then climbs up herself. "Hi, Sarah!"

"Hello, Mia. Do you come here often?"

"All the time. It's my favourite place in all the world."

"So your father knows where you are?"

"Of course. Papa taught me to swim here. Did you see the raft John and Cameron built? Isn't it fantastic? I didn't think it would float but it does."

"It's very nice."

"I'm so glad you came to our camp. You're all so nice. I hope you never leave!"

Sarah Connor looks away, a pained expression on her face. Even John seems discomfited by her words. Typically Snowy chooses this moment to shake the excess moisture from his fur. Water droplets fly everywhere, including over Sarah Connor who reacts with predictable anger.

"Hey! Bad dog!"

_Woof woof woof!_

"Don't you bark at me!"

"He's saying sorry. Look, see." Mia shows her the iPhone. She takes it and stares at the contrite words on the screen then asks, "Okay, what is this?"

"Cameron gave it to me. It tells you what Snowy's barking. Isn't it amazing?"

Sarah Connor turns to stare at me. "You made a dog translator? I don't believe it."

"But it's true!" Mia insists. "Go on, ask him a question."

"What's my name?" she asks. An easy one. Snowy's tail wags. He loves to talk to people.

_you are sarah! I am snowy!_

"Where are we?"

_mexico! snowy not see salma hayek yet!_

"Was it you who messed in my vegetable patch back in LA?"

Snowy hangs his head in shame.

_snowy very sorry! sarah not punish snowy?_

Sarah Connor smiles and shakes her head. "A dog translator." She faces me and says, "You're full of surprises, aren't you?"

"You disapprove?"

She considers this then shakes her head again. "I guess it can't hurt. Mia, you didn't show your father this, did you?"

"No. Should I?"

"No. Let's keep it our little secret."

"Okay! Come on, Snowy, let's go sailing again. Acapulco, I think."

"Acapulco?" Sarah Connor asks as they get back into the dinghy and paddle away.

"It's that rock over there," I explain. Duh! Isn't it obvious?

"Ri-ght..."

_"Hola!"_

Another visitor. Carlos this time. He descends the route Sarah Connor chose only he is not as nimble on his feet as her. Halfway down he stumbles, sprawling clumsily on his face. He gets up hastily, brushing grit from his clothes while cursing in fluent spanish. Sarah Connor frowns and glances over at Mia. She is too absorbed playing with Snowy to pay any attention.

Carlos reaches the shoreline without further mishap, his scowl becoming a grin when he notices how little Sarah Connor is wearing and how much bare flesh is on display.

"What do you want?" she asks coldly, all too aware of what he is staring at.

"Can't a man enjoy the view,_ senorita_? It is simply stunning. You are stunning."

"What do want, Carlos?"

"Miquel send me to find you."

"Well, you've found me. What is it?"

"Miquel say what you were expecting has arrived."

-0-

"It's here, Chi-Chi! Just as I promised it would be."

Miquel hands a now fully dressed Sarah Connor a thick manila package.

"Note I have not opened it. That way your new IDs are a secret even from me."

"Thanks, Miquel."

"My pleasure. If the the documents aren't what you require tell me. I have had many dealings with this forger. He can be disciplined if necessary."

"I'm sure everything's fine."

Miquel goes back inside his RV. Sarah Connor rips open the package and is about to extract the documents when she hesitates. Across the way Antonio is seated on the steps of his RV and staring directly at us. "Let's go somewhere more private," she announces.

We walk a distance away from camp. Finally we are far enough from prying eyes and the package is reopened.

"Looks okay to me. Here, you take a look."

She hands me the documents. I scan them, comparing them to the real thing I have filed on my database. "This is fine workmanship," I admit.

"Good enough to fool a customs inspection?"

"I believe so."

"Good. We leave at first light tomorrow. drive to Mexico City and catch a flight back to the states."

"Aren't you forgetting something?" John says. "Airports have fully body scanners now. cameron will never get past those. Plus Snowy wouldn't be allowed on board."

"What d'you suggest - another stolen powerboat?"

"You catch the plane. I've thought of a way we can get Cameron and Snowy over the border. We'll drive-_oops!"_

John stumbles but manages to avoid falling. A length of chain is protruding from the ground. I bend to throw it aside. More chain comes up. Then a hole in the ground appears.

"What did you do?" Sarah Connor's tone is accusatory. I get the blame for everything.

"Nothing."

"Maybe an old mineshaft from the quarry?" John suggests.

"I see steps."

A flight of wooden steps lead downwards. We descend with me taking point, just in case of trouble. Below is an underground room or cellar, a roughly square ten feet by ten, the walls lined with metal shelves. On the shelves are clear plastic bags containing an unidentified white powder.

Sarah Connor groans and says, "Oh no! Miquel, you idiot."

"What is it?" I ask.

"Cocaine," John explains. "Guess Miquel's in the drug smuggling business." He picks up one of the clear plastic bags. "If this is pure cocaine then there must be several million dollars worth here. What are we going to do?"

"Do? We're gonna seal this place up and make like we know nothing about it. We leave in the morning anyway. This isn't our concern. We're not narks. I just thought Miquel had more sense than to get mixed up with drugs."

We go back up the steps. Outside waiting for us to emerge are Miquel, Antonio and Carlos, the latter two are pointing guns at us.

"Oh Chi-Chi, what have you done?" Miquel sighs.

"What have I done? What about you, Miquel? Drugs? I thought you had principles."

"It's complicated. You wouldn't understand."

"What's complicated about just saying no?"

"Because saying no gets people I care about killed."

"You mean your wife?"

"Some Colombians noiced how adept I was at smuggling arms across borders. They wanted me to do the same for their packages. I refused. They wouldn't take no for an answer."

"Oh and I suppose the money we pay you is given to charity?" Antonio sneers. "You are paid well for your trouble. What happened to your wife was your own fault."

"Please, Antonio," Miquel begs. "I know these people. They have secrets of their own. They will not tell what they have seen."

"I warned you when they arrived,_ compadre_. You swore they would not snoop. It seems you were wrong again."

"We won't tell anyone. We'll be gone tomorrow," Sarah Connor insists "You'll never see us again."

"I think not. Will you do the honours, Miquel? Since you know them so well."

Miquel's shoulders slump. "No, you ask too much. Take them far from here. And bury them deep. I don't want Mia to chance upon their bodies."

Miquel walks away. Antonio gestures with his gun for us to walk ahead of him. John leans in and whispers, "Wait for my signal."

"No talking!"

We are escorted at gunpoint deeper into the quarry. "Okay, far enough," Antonio announces. "Stop and turn around."

John sinks to his knees and sobs, "Please don't shoot! I don't want to die!"

Antonio grins and says, "Cowardly Gringo. I bet a hundred pesos he pees his pants!"

"You lose, asshole!"

John punches him in the groin. This must be the signal he mentioned. I take the opportunity to punch Carlos in the chest. He drops his gun and flies backwards ten feet before collapsing. He doesn't get up. I retrieve his weapon and fire one shot into Antonio's skull. He ceases writhing in pain on the ground. Pain will never trouble him again. Or anything else for that matter.

"Dammit, there was no need to shoot him," Sarah Connor scolds snatching the gun from my hand. "We could've handed him over to the cops."

She fires two more rounds harmlessly into the ground. "Why did you do that?" I ask.

"Miquel will expect to hear three shots."

John asks, "What do we do now?"

"Go back to camp and try and grab our stuff without being spotted. These two won't be missed for at least an hour. Once we're clear we'll tip off the police. Tell them where to find the drugs.

"That amount of dope he'll go to jail for a long time."

"He tried to kill us, John. What d'you suggest - we strike him from our Christmas list?"

**-0-**

I return to the RV. Mia and Snowy are seated on her cot. She is feeding him strips of beef jerky. I pull my pack from under the bed and stuff it with my belongings. "What are you doing?" she asks.

"Leaving."

"When are you coming back?"

"Never."

"I don't want you to go."

I say, "Come, Snowy."

"No! Please don't take Snowy!"

"He's my dog."

"But...but..." her tiny face crumples. "I HATE YOU! I HATE YOU ALL!" she screams.

She jumps off the cot and locks herself in the bathroom. I can hear her sobbing through the door. Snowy whimpers pathetically. He looks from me to the closed door of the bathroom where Mia's weeping is loud in the confined space. "Well, are you coming with me or staying here?" I demand.

Before I can learn where his true loyalties lie gunfire sounds from outside. Automatic weapons. And John and his mother have only handguns.

"Wait here," I order Snowy. "And don't let the girl go outside."

**-0-**

I find them sheltered behind one of the RVs. "Roberto saw me," John explains. "He and Miquel have Uzis while I'm down to half a clip."

"It will suffice," I assure him taking the gun.

I step out of the shelter and advance towards the two men. Roberto rakes my chest with the Uzi's rapidfire. My croptop is shredded. Bummer. It was my favourite one.

"El diablo!" he shouts as his bullets have no effect. I raise my pistol and shoot him twice in the chest. Miquel is slow bringing his weapon up and realises I have the drop on him. He throws his hands in the air. I hesitate and spare his life. There's a first time for everything.

John and Sarah Connor arrive at my side. She steps forward and punches Miquel hard on the jaw. His head snaps sideways and a trickle of blood drips from his mouth. "You miserable sonofabitch!"

"I had no choice, Sarah!"

"There's always a choice. It's called right or wrong."

"What will you do with me?"

"Tie you up and call the cops. Your dope dealing days are over."

"They will throw me in jail."

"It's better than you deserve. You were going to stand by and let us be murdered."

"Please. They will take Mia away. She has no relatives, only me. They will put her in an orphanage. They are bad places in Mexico."

"You should've thought of that before."

"Oh darling, Chi-Chi. I'm so sorry, I cannot allow it."

In one quick movement he pulls a gun hidden behind his back and aims directly at me.

My reflexes are quicker.

My aim is truer.

My bullet deadly accurate.

Miquel collapses to the ground clutching a chest wound which is fountaining blood. "Chi-Chi," he gasps. "Please, I beg you, take care of Mia. If not for my sake then for hers."

There are no more requests, no more last words. His eyes lose focus and his head lolls to one side. Death has claimed him.

Sarah Connor curses. John waits patiently until she is done. "What now?" he asks.

"We stick to the plan."

"I meant about Mia. We can't dump her in some hellhole orphanage."

"What do you suggest - take her with us back to America?"

"It won't be so bad."

"We're not the Walton's, John."

"No, we're the Connor's. And this is how we roll. We leave no one behind."

There is steel in John's voice. Authority. An early glimpse of his future self. His mother meets his gaze but is the first to look away.

"Let's go and ask her. Maybe she won't want to come with us."

**-0-**

Mia becomes hysterical when she is informed her father is dead. This is to be expected. It is over an hour before John can have a serious discussion with her.

"Mia, you have to make a choice." he says kindly. "Either come to America and live with us, or we'll leave you with the police and they'll find someone to look after you here in Mexico."

"I want to stay here!"

"You can't, sweetie, no one's here to look after you."

"I want to stay here with Snowy!"

"I'm sorry. No can do."

"I'll come with you on one condition."

"What?"

She raises her chin defiantly. "Snowy becomes my dog."

"Snowy is my dog," I point out.

"Then I'll stay here! I don't care."

John says, "Cam, I need you to be the bigger person here."

"You want me to be taller?"

"Remember back in LA when you were on the verge of...you know," Sarah Connor says. "I told you you owed me."

"Not then, not the next day but one day."

"That day is now."

"Very well. Snowy is Mia's dog."

"You mean it?"

"Yes."

"Then I come with you."

**-0-**

I carry Miquel's body into the underground room and place it beside the other bodies. Sarah Connor follows me down the steps carrying a jerrycan of gasoline. She splashes the contents over the bodies and the shelves laden with drugs. We climb into fading daylight. It is almost dusk; the heat of the day becoming a sultry evening.

"Is that everyone?"

"Yes."

She sighs. "This needn't have happened. We should've done things differently."

"The past is what it was. The present is what it is."

"Oh very profound. From a book?"

"TV. _The Young and the Restless_."

"You watch_ serials?"_

"It aids my vernacular. What up, bi_aitch_."

She takes a silver Zippo lighter from a pocket and snaps it open. A small flame appears, flickering in the light breeze. It seems she is about to toss it into the underground room before hesitating and lowering her hand. The flame gutters and dies out.

"I will do it if you are squeamish."

"I'm not squeamish. It's just...you wouldn't understand."

"Try me."

"This is all my fault. That little girl's an orphan because of me. Things went bad in LA so quickly. First one safe house then the other. It felt like the ground was moving under my feet. I need somewhere familiar. Someone I could trust. Or thought I could."

"The drug trade is inherently dangerous. It is likely Miquel would've been killed anyway once his usefulness expired."

"Is that meant to make me feel better?"

"I don't know. Does it?"

A shake of the head. The lighter is reignited. This time she tosses it into the hole in the ground without prevarication.

We watch the flames consume everything. John approaches. He is carrying the black attache case. "Found it under Antonio's bed," he explains. "Take a look."

He pops the clasps and opens the case. Inside are neat bundles of used dollar bills.

"A hundred thousand dollars, give or take."

"Drug money."

"Would be my guess, yeah. What do I do with it?"

"I don't care. Throw it in the fire."

John hesitates. "We're gonna need travel documents for Mia. My plan is gonna cost money too. I was thinking maybe we take what we need and donate the rest to a charity before we leave."

"Fine. Do that then," Sarah Connor says in an odd lifeless tone. "How's the girl?"

"As you'd expect. Fine one minute crying her eyes out the next."

"I'll go and see if she wants anything to eat."

John and I remain. We stare at the billowing flames. They are curiously entrancing.

"Mom blames herself."

"Yes."

"It's not her fault."

"No."

"I hope we're doing the right thing taking Mia with us."

"We won't know until we try."

"Do you have any knowledge of Mia in the future?"

"No. However..."

"What?"

"There are memories I cannot access. They have been placed behind a firewall."

"By whom?"

"By you, of course."

John frowns. "Why would I do that?"

"Presumably to prevent prior knowledge from influencing my decisions in this time."

"I can't believe I would let that girl be orphaned if I could stop it happening. I must be a miserable sonofabitch to do that."

"But still handsome."

It is no consolation. I didn't expect it to be.

**-000-**

**If you begrudge Mia Snowy then you've a harder heart than I.**

**Next, a much lighter chapter. John's plan to cross the border. It involves Spring Break. Woo hoo!**


	43. Chapter fortythree

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MEXICO DAY SEVEN

Andre Cordoba. This is the name of the skilled forger who created our passports and ID documents. John finds his name and address among papers in Miquel's RV. He lives in Guadlajara. If Mia is to accompany us to the United States she requires good quality fake documents. We need to pay him a visit.

Guadalajara. A city of one and a half million people. The second largest in Mexico and the the tenth largest on the American continent. I recite these facts until Sarah Connor tells me to put a sock in it. This means she wants me to shut up. It does not mean she wants me to insert an actual sock into an appropriate orifice. No, I will not be making that mistake twice.

"This is it," John announces, checking a road map with the papers that have Andre Cordoba's address written on them. "That building there. Apartment 3B. Pretty nice neighbourhood, all things considered."

"It should be since he's banked ninety grand of our money. John, stay here with Mia. You come with me."

Sarah Connor and I walk up to the apartment building. Beside the door are buttons and a list of names corresponding to the occupants. There is no name beside apartment 3B. Nevertheless she presses the button.

_"Si?"_

A male voice through the tiny metal grille. "Senor Andre Cordoba?"

_"Who wants to know?"_

"We're friends of Miquel Norguerra. We'd like to speak to you regarding a business matter."

_"I know no one by that name."_

"You are Andre Cordoba?"

_"I'm sorry, I cannot help you. Please leave me alone."_

Sarah Connor turns to me. "Is he lying?"

"The stress levels in his voice became progressively higher. Analysis indicates several were half-truths at most."

"You could just say, yes, he's lying."

"Yes, he's lying."

"Open the door."

I push the door. The lock resists for a nanosecond then breaks. The door swings open.

Sarah Connor draws her gun. "Remember, whatever happens we need him alive."

"I am not carrying a weapon."

"You are a weapon."

This sounds suspiciously like a compliment.

We take the stairs. The door to 3B is easily located. Sarah Connor raps on the wooden frame. "Senor Cordoba? It's Miquel's friends. We spoke just now. If you could just spare us a moment."

"Go away!" A muffled voice from within. "Stop harrassing me. I've called the police. They'll be here any minute."

Sarah Connor looks at me. I shake my head. More lies.

"You're bluffing, Senor Cordoba. Someone in your line of work wouldn't want to attract the attention of the police."

No reply. Silence from within.

"Open the door."

Again I push. Again the resistance is minimal. Two deadbolts and a small metal chain part company with the doorframe.

In a wide hallway a man stares back at us, his mouth a perfect O of surprise. He is short, in late middle-age and wearing cord pants and an untucked white shirt. He takes a step backwards as we enter his apartment.

"Please, I have very little money. What I have is yours."

Sarah Connor picks up some mail lying on a side table. "These are all addressed to an Andre Corboda. Let's cut the bullshit. That's you, isn't it?"

A reluctant nod.

"A few days ago you did some work for Miquel Norguerra, including this passport and two others like it." She shows him her passport.

"You are not the police?"

"Far from it."

"Very well. This is my work, I admit it. Is there something wrong?"

"No. We just need another like it. For a little girl. And we need it today."

"Today? Impossible. These things take time, procedures need to be followed, they cannot be rushed."

"Maybe this will change your mind. Show him the case."

I place Antonio's attache case on the sidetable and pop the clasps. Andre Cordoba's eyes widen as he sees the money. The fear in his eyes fades is replaced by greed. It is an all too familiar human reaction.

"That's around ninety thousand dollars. Used bills. Untraceable. Yours if you do as we ask."

"Just the passport?"

"And identification papers. Permits. Birth certificate. A whole new identity.."

"I'll need birth dates, physical description and a photograph of the subject."

"I can do better than that." She flips open her cell phone. "John? Bring Mia upstairs. Yes, everything's fine. What?" She frowns. "Why can't the dog stay in the car? Alright, let him come up too."

Poor Snowy. He doesn't like to be left out. He will probably want his photo taken as well. He's very vain.

-0-

John, Mia and Snowy join us upstairs. Andre Cordoba takes several digital photographs of Mia then enters his study where he will prepare the fake documents. John leads Mia to the lounge and switches on the TV. He finds a channel showing cartoons and Mia settles down to watch _Kim Possible_, an American teenage girl who uses her skills and ingenuity to save the world. Remind you of anyone? Yes, indeed. She is just like me, only with pointier boobs and an unfeasibly narrow waist. How did she get such a narrow waist? I suspect purging and diuretics.

Andre Cordoba works all the afternoon. John watches him work, partly to ensure he doesn't run out on us and partly because there is little else to do. The study has several state of the art printers and a highend computer on which Senor Cordoba inputs Mia's new bogus identity.

"What is the girl's blood group?"

John shrugs. "I'm afraid I don't know."

"I'll put group O. It's the most common. The odds are in her favour."

"How did you come to be in this line of work, Senor Cordoba?"

"Ten years ago I worked at a printing factory that did work for the government, various official documents and the like. I had a wife and three young daughters. Money was tight. We lived in a two room apartment in Mexico City. I worried constantly how I would pay the bills. Then one day a man I never met before paid me a visit."

"Miquel."

"Yes. He seemed to know a lot about me and was sympathetic to my plight. He asked me to acquire some special paper, the kind used to print passports. He offered to pay me the eqivilent of three months salary if I did so. It was an offer I found difficult to refuse. Soon I was supplying him with paper, ink and the correct stamps to forge offical documents. I was able to advise on the various techniques needed in the printing process. In time I decided to freelance. It is - how do you say? - most lucrative. Many people wish to be other than who they really are."

"And highly illegal."

A shrug. "I do not consider myself a saint. Just a hardworking man trying to provide for my family. If God disapproves I'm sure I shall find out in the fullness of time." He crosses himself. "As we all will."

"You mentioned a wife and three daughters? Are you expecting them here?"

"No. My wife and I are divorced. She lives on the coast. I see my girls twice a month. It is not ideal but..." Another shrug. "At least now I can afford to put them through college and help them afford apartments of their own."

"Doesn't your wife wonder where you get the money to afford a place like this and pay college fees?"

"As long as her alimony cheques arrive she doesn't much care where I am or what I do. Or where the money comes from."

"I'm sorry."

A thin smile. "Such is life."

-0-

It is dark outside when the documents are finally ready. Mia has fallen asleep on the couch. John carries her down to the car, Snowy trotting faithfully at his heels.

Sarah Connor examines Andre Cordoba's handiwork. "These will pass a customs inspection?"

"Of course. I would prefer to let the ink cure a few days, but you were most insistent it should be done today. Just ensure the girl is wearing a different dress to the one in the photo. That might seem suspicious."

The case containing the money changes hands. Andre Cordoba opens it and takes out a bundle of notes. He holds it close to his face and sniffs it as if not quite believing it is real.

"That's drug money," Sarah Connor informs him. "If you try and double-cross us or alert the authorities in any way, one phone call and some very bad people will come looking for it."

"You need have no worries. In my line of work a certain discretion comes as standard."

"I'm pleased to hear it. Goodbye, Senor Cordoba."

"Ah - one last thing. Will I be seeing Miquel again?"

Sarah Connor averts her eyes. "I'm afraid not."

"Ah. I thought as much. That's too bad. I have much to thank him for and I became rather fond of him, for all his flaws."

"Yeah. I know the feeling."

-0-

It is close to midnight by the time we reach Guadalajara airport. We wait in the departure lounge while Sarah Connor checks the terminal desks and decides which flight to catch.

"There's a flight leaving for San Diego in thirty minutes," she announces. "I've booked seats for the two of us. We'll check into a hotel and wait for you there."

Mia has to be woken up to board the plane. Predictably she is upset about leaving Snowy behind.

"I want to go with Snowy!"

John squats down until his face is level with Mia's. "I explained this earlier," he says in a kind yet firm voice. "The plan won't work if you come with us. You'll see Snowy very soon."

"You promise?"

"Absolutely. Now go with mom. You've never been on an airplane before, have you?"

"No."

"Well, then, it'll be an adventure you can tell Snowy all about in a few days."

We stay in the terminal and watch as they board their flight. There are no problems with the documents. Andre Cordoba has done his work well.

Once they pass from sight John says, "Better get going. It's a long drive to Cancun. Think we can pass as spring breakers?"

"Dude, I am totally on it."

"Did you just call me dude?"

"It seemed appropriate."

MEXICO DAY TEN

_"Do it! Do it! Do it!"_

The words flow together becoming first an exhortation then a demand.

_"Doitditdoitdoitdoitdoitdoit!"_

Soon even the syllables become indistinguishable from each other, cascading together becoming a chant, an ululation carried on the sultry night breeze.

I am on the beach in Cancun, a Mexican vacation resort. There are a dozen or more teenagers surrounding me, students here on Spring Break. A bonfire lights the scene. Strange as it may seem this is all part of John's plan to get myself and Snowy across the border without alerting the authorities.

_"DO IT! DO IT! DOIT! DOIT!"_

Louder and more insistent, they will not be denied. John and I are posing as college students, part of the crowd. Our story is that our car and money were stolen when we arrived and we require a ride back across the border. One couple in particular have been sympathetic to our fictictious plight: Troy and Khandi, two History majors from San Diego University. Khandi is in front of me now. She has just lost a bet and must now pay an arbitrary forfeit.

The forfeit is to kiss me on the lips for one full minute.

Khandi is very drunk, as are many of the other teenagers, as indeed would I be if the alcohol I have imbibed had the least effect on me.

"Sorry, Cam. Here goes nothing!"

Khandi's flushed face descends on mine. I feel her lips press against my own. A ragged cheer goes up from the onlookers. I feel her tongue probe then part my lips, inserting itself in my mouth. I could easily bite down and sever it in two. But I don't. It is not part of the plan.

My sensors can't help but analyse Khandi's saliva. Alcohol is red flagged in my HUD as approaching near toxic levels. It is a wonder Khandi is still standing let alone able to snog me with such fervour.

Finally the minute elapses. Another cheer goes up. Khandi separates herself from my lips, a sloppy grin on her face. She is an attractive girl with blonde hair and a curvacious body barely contained by the sarong she is wearing. Is this the reason John chose her and Troy as our marks? I tell myself it is just coincidence. Still I will be glad when the plan has succeeded and we part company.

The games continue. Another boy loses his bet and has to pay a forfeit: skinnydip in the ocean. He is so intoxicated he barely knows where the ocean is and staggers forlornly around the beach, his tanlines vivid and obvious in the glow of the bonfire. Then someone yells, _"Hey, let's all skinnydip!"_

This suggestion is met with a chorus of whooping and hollering. Suddenly the beach is alive with teenagers sprinting for the waves, removing their clothes as they run. Soon only John and I remain by the bonfire, even Khandi has managed to stagger towards the waves. "What do we do?" I ask.

He shrugs. "When in Rome..."

"We're not in Rome," I point out.

"When in Cancun..."

He takes my hand and together we jog towards the ocean, shedding our clothes as we go.

-0-

MEXICO DAY ELEVEN

"So the cops still have no idea who stole your car?"

"Nope. Investigation is ongoing, I was told. Probably in a Mexico City chopshop by now."

John's lies are accepted at face value by Troy, Khandi's boyfriend. He is at the wheel of his own vehicle, a silver BMW he likes to refer to as a beamer. We are several hours out of Cancun, fast approaching the border. Snowy is in the trunk, safe within a specially prepared suitcase. It has been made clear to him that he must not bark until we are safely in America. Is he up to the task? I believe so.

"What kind of car did you say it was?"

"Porsche 911. Graduation present."

"Sweet! Hope you were insured?"

"Yeah. No worries there. It's just the principle of the thing, you know. We came here for a good time and this happens. Plus losing all our money. I really didn't want to call my folks back home for help. They were kinda set against this whole spring break thing from the off. Sure is good of you to give us a ride back."

"I hear you, man. My folks are just the same. Freaking Republicans. Never lived a day in their lives. Hope they catch the scumbags who ripped you off."

I am seated on the back seat next to Khandi, who is slumped down with a large pair of sunglasses over her eyes. These are not to protect her from the sun. Instead they mask her bloodshot eyes from onlookers. The near toxic level of alcohol she consumed yesterday has taken a physical toll.

"You okay back there, babe?" Troy inquires.

"Fine. If people would stop shouting."

"No one's shouting, hon."

"Still shouting!" Khandi winces and hold her head.

"It's because you're hungover."

"I'm never drinking again."

"You said that last time."

"I mean it!"

"You said that too."

"Pig!"

"She can get kinda crabby when she's hungover," Troy explains.

Khandi says, "Stop the car. I'm gonna barf!"

"Can't stop, babe. Traffic."

"Then pop a window. I'm definitely gonna barf!"

The rear window winds down. Khandi thrusts her upper body through. There is the sound of retching. She slumps back in her seat, staring balefully at me.

"How come you're so perky? You drank just as much as me."

I make no reply. The alcohol I consumed resides in a sealed container deep within my sternum, unaltered from the moment it was poured. I have no bloodstream to absorb it, no kidneys to filter it and no bladder to expel it. I am a walking cocktail shaker.

"Guess Cameron knows her limits," Troy suggests.

"Oh and I don't?"

"You were pretty wasted."

"I didn't do anything stupid, did I?"

"You mean like smooch Cameron? Ya huh! That was way hot!"

"It was a forfeit," I explain. "You had no choice."

"Oh God! Not tongues?"

I confirm tongues were involved.

"But nothing else?"

Troy says, "You mean apart from the mass skinnydip afterwards?"

"Oh God! No wonder I couldn't find my panties this morning! Please tell me no one had a video camera."

"No one had a video camera," I assure her. "I made sure of that."

"See? At least Cameron had her head screwed on."

"Actually it's welded on," I correct.

This is a very funny joke apparently. Who knew?

We approach the border crossing, joining a small queue of traffic waiting to cross into America. Troy says, "Everyone got their passport?"

"Sure thing," John says, handing Troy his and mine.

"Great. This'll be a breeze, trust me. I've done this a thousand times."

"Twice," Khandi says. "We've been to Cancun twice, Mr Bigshot."

Troy grins sheepishly. "We'll be fine. Just as long as they don't find the bale of weed I'm smuggling."

Silence.

Troy bursts out laughing. "Kidding! Man, the look on your faces!"

"Real funny," John lies, offering a wan smile.

A customs official steps forward and takes the passports. He examines them closely then peers into the vehicle. "What's wrong with the girl?" he asks indicating the slumped Khandi.

"Too much tequila," Troy explains.

"Spring breakers, huh? Yeah, we've had a few of you today. You okay in there, miss?"

"Fine. If everyone would stop shouting."

The official returns the passports. "Pop the trunk," he orders.

He disappears behind the vehicle. Although John seems outwardly calm I know that inside he is tense. If Snowy should choose this moment to bark or sneeze or do something to reveal his presence the plan will fail.

The trunk is closed. The official waves us onwards. "Drive safely now."

"You go it, _amigo_. _Adios, Mexico!"_

Troy guns the throttle and we enter America.

-0-

Troy and Khandi drop us off at a park in downtown San Diego. We all make vague promises to stay in touch and hook up at some unspecified future date. We are being insincere. We will never see each other again.

Once we are alone John places the suitcase on a park bench and undoes the clasps. Snowy's head pops out.

"You okay, boy?" John inquires lifting Snowy out and placing him on the ground.

_snowy not bark!_

"You did great. Go and run around and stretch your legs. I'll call mom and tell her we're here."

Mia and Sarah Connor arrive twenty minutes later. Mia is all smiles once she sees Snowy.

"Snowy! Guess who we saw on the airplane - Salma Hayek! And you're right - she does have big boobies!" She giggles. "I said boobies!" She and Snowy snigger. The word seems to amuse them greatly.

"And we saw a movie where a man ties balloons to his house and it floats up into the air and he has adventures. That's what we'll do. We tie balloons to ourselves and float up into the sky and have adventures!"

"Best of luck with that," Sarah Connor smirks.

Twp teenagers on rollerblades glide past. Mia stares after them, her eyes wide with wonder.

"What are they?"

"Rollerblades," John explains.

_"I want rollerblades!"_

"And fall and break your neck? I don't think so,'" Sarah Connor tells her.

"I want rollerblades!" Mia insists. "And a pair for Snowy."

"Two pairs. He has four legs," I point out.

"Don't encourage her."

"How about I buy everyone ice creams?" John suggests.

Mia allows herself to be placated, though she still looks wistfully after the two rollerbladers.

John returns with four ice creams. He places one on the ground for Snowy.

"Didn't you get one for Cameron?" Mia asks.

"She's lactose intolerent," John informs her.

"What's that mean?"

"It means ice cream brings her out in hives."

_"Eww!"_

Eww, indeed.

As the ice creams are consumed a boy on a skateboard rolls past. Mia's eyes grow wide with wonder once more.

"What's that?"

"Skateboard."

_"I want a skateboard!"_

"A minute ago you wanted rollerblades."

_"I want rollerblades and a skateboard!"_

"Well, you can't have them. You're too young."

"Papa would let me have one." Her chin trembles. "I miss my Papa. I want to go home!"

She bursts into tears. Sarah Connor's jaw tightens and she looks away. John sighs and says, "Wait here."

He jogs after the skateboarder. The two converse. Money changes hands. John returns with the skateboard under his arm. He hands it to Mia.

"Here you are."

"R..R..Really?"

"You want me to show you how to ride it?"

"Yeah!"

John demonstrates the basic technique and soon Mia is riding it up and down the tarmac paths, not caring who she almost runs into which is nearly everybody.

"She needs to learn she can't have everything she sees," Sarah Connor says folding her arms across her chest.

"I know. I just don't like to see her unhappy."

"We should get going. We need to get back to LA."

"Can't we give them a few minutes?"

"John, there are things we need to do."

"Isn't this what we're fighting for? So little girls can play in the park in the sunshine with their pet dogs?"

"Five minutes."

John sighs. "Deal."

**-000-**

**I daresay you're all poised to ridicule my smuggling scheme. And yet when I introduced a talking dog not a word! LOL**

**We don't have Spring Break in England, though I have seen a couple of GGW vids - purely for research purposes, hehehe.**


	44. Chapter fortyfour

**JohnThe Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MONDAY

Santa Monica. John, Sarah Connor, Mia, Snowy and I are in a leased Ford Surburban. We have just picked up the keys to our new safehouse.

"Do people really live in all these houses?" Mia asks her face pushed against the side window.

"Uh huh."

"Why is everything so green?"

"The climate's less harsh than in Mexico," John explains. "And there's more rainfall. Plants grow better."

"Will our house have a yard?"

"It better," Sarah Connor replies. "For the amount it's costing us to lease."

We turn onto a wide street lined by grass verges that have palm trees spaced evenly between driveways casting pools of shade.

"This is it. Twenty-six Madison," Sarah Connor says. The Surburban comes to a stop. She sighs and rests her head on the steeering wheel.

"What's wrong? " John asks.

"Look at me, John. I have three kids and a dog. I'm driving a Surburban and living in the 'burbs. It's finally happened. I've turned into my mother."

"You look no different," I tell her.

John pats her on the back. "Hey, it's not so bad."

"You never knew my mother."

Once we are inside the house Mia and Snowy race upstairs. John and I follow at a more sedate pace.

"Ooh, can this be my room?" Mia asks.

"Don't you want to see the others first?"

"No, I want this one!"

"Okay, then. This is your room."

Mia crosses to the window. "Look - there's a pool! In our backyard! We can play cruiseliners! C'mon, Snowy, let's check it out!"

Together they race back down the stairs. Sarah Connor yells, "Don't get your dress dirty; it's new!"

John and I watch from the window as Mia races across the terrace, kicks off her shoes and jumps into the pool fully clothed. Snowy follows her in.

"Oh no," John groans. "This isn't going to be pretty."

It's not. Sarah Connor remonstrates with Mia for disobeying her. She yells back. Snowy's barks add to the confusion. The argument ends with Mia calling Sarah Connor a mean old witch.

"Did you hear what that girl called me?" she asks joining us upstairs.

"A mean old witch," I reiterate.

"She is so ill-disciplined."

"Mom, you've got to cut her some slack. She's been through a lot."

"So I'm supposed to let her do as she pleases?"

"I'm been where she is, remember? The more Frank and Janelle tried to impose order the more I rebelled. If they said be in at a certain time I made sure I came in hours later, if at all. Go easy on her. You catch more flies with honey than vinegar."

"Why do you wish to catch flies?" I inquire. I am ignored.

"She has to learn to do as she's told."

"Anyone can love a well-behaved child. She wants to know if we'll still love her if she misbehaves."

"Do you eat the flies you catch?" I persist. Again I am ignored. Honestly, I might as well be invisible.

Mia comes inside and climbs the stairs, making more noise than strictly necessary. She appears in the doorway looking wet and bedraggled yet with a stubborn truculance on her face that suggests she has come expecting another argument.

Sarah Connor surprises her, surprises us all, by smiling. Smiling? Who is this imposter?

"Look at the state of you. Take those wet clothes off. I'll get you a dry towel."

"You're not mad at me?"

"Of course I'm mad at you. You ruined a very pretty dress."

"It is a pretty dress," Mia concedes.

"Maybe if I wash it it'll be okay."

Mia removes her wet clothes and alllows herself to be wrapped in a dry towel.

"D'you want to shower before dinner and wash the chlorine smell out of your hair?"

"I guess..." She bites her lip, seems to consider something, then blurts out, "I'm sorry I called you a mean old witch!"

"Apology accepted. Now let's get you in the shower."

As she is led away along the landing, I turn to John and say, "There is something very wrong with your mother. She is being nice."

"Don't worry," John grins. "It can't possibly last."

**-0-**

TUESDAY

Despite the fact that the house has four spacious bedrooms, John elects to sleep in the attic room, the smallest in the house. I ask him why.

"You, basically."

"Me?"

"You've been getting kinda vocal lately."

"Vocal?"

"Yeah, you know, vocal..."

"I don't know."

"You want me to spell it out?"

"Please."

John spells it out.

_Oh. That vocal..._

"I thought you liked that?"

"Oh I do. Believe me."

"I can mute myself if you wish."

No, we'll be fine here. I'd just rather not share it with mom. And now Mia."

"Mia would not hear. She sleeps like a frog."

"A frog?"

"It's an expression. To sleep soundly is to sleep like a frog."

"I think you mean log."

"Sleep like a log? Hardly. Logs are inanimate objects and therefore do not sleep."

"Okay, sleep like a frog it is." He leans over and kisses me.

"What was that for?"

"Oh just for being you."

Odd. Who else can I be?

**-0-**

WEDNESDAY

I have experienced a shock. A shock so profound and unexpected I am surprised my CPU hasn't melted.

John is the Tooth Fairy.

I discovered this by chance. One of Mia's milk teeth fell out and as is the custom she placed it under her pillow in the expectation that the Tooth Fairy would come in the night and exchange it for cash. I decided I would very much like to meet this mysterious creature. I have many questions to put to her. Such as the manner in which she infiltrates otherwise secure buildings. Some form of stealth technology perhaps? To this end I stake out Mia's bedroom, concealing myself in the shadows and await the Tooth Fairy's arrival.

At ten past midnight the door opens and John enters. He crosses to the bed, lifts the pillow, takes the tooth and deposits a twenty dollar bill in its stead. He exits the way he came in. He doesn't notice me.

John is the Tooth Fairy.

I wait ten minutes then return to the attic room. John is already in bed.

"Hi. I thought you were on patrol."

"No patrol tonight."

"Good. Hey, how about you wear that white teddy I bought you?"

"You have been keeping secrets from me."

"About the teddy? No, you were there when we bought it. As I recall, you wanted to buy the entire rack. The assistant thought we were sex maniacs."

"That is not the secret."

"What then?"

"You are the Tooth Fairy."

It is some time before John stops laughing.

"Do you deny it?"

"Come on - do I look like the Tooth Fairy?"

I confess I expected it to be smaller. And female. Possibly with wings.

"Cam, I'm not the Tooth Fairy!"

"But I saw you in Mia's room. You took the tooth and left money. This is the MO of the Tooth Fairy."

"Cam, there's no such thing. Parents take the teeth and leave money. It's a tradition."

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose having a tooth fall out isn't very nice. This cheers them up."

"I feel foolish."

"You weren't to know."

A thought occurs. "Santa Claus isn't fake, is he?"

John smiles. "Now you're being paranoid. Santa's every bit as real as the Easter Bunny."

**-0-**

THURSDAY

I am out of shampoo. Bummer.

I stand in the bathroom and consider my options.

1) Delay washing my hair until I can obtain fresh supplies.

2) Use the shower gel as a substitute.

3) Borrow Sarah Connor's shampoo.

I decide on option 3). What can possibly go wrong?

While she is busy downstairs fixing Mia's breakfast I dart across the landing and open the door to her bedroom. This door is kept closed but not locked, mostly to prevent Snowy from sleeping on her bed and shedding fur on her clothes.

I cross to the dresser and open a drawer at random. Instead of a bottle of shampoo I find a small leather bound book with a two word title:

MY DIARY

I flick through the pages. They are full of her untidy spidery handwriting. Is it possible that Sarah Connor is writing a secret diary of her own? I turn to the latest entries and begin reading.

_3rd_

_Another huge argument with Mia. How am I supposed to raise this girl? Do I raise her to become a warrior like I did John? Or do I try and give her as normal a childhood as possible? At present it's a moot point since she won't do a single thing I say. J handles her effortlessly, coaxing her to do the right thing without so much as raising his voice. Is this an early sign of his leadership skills or confirmation of what a lousy mother I am?_

_4th_

_J and the cyborg's relationship continues. J has moved into the attic, citing its strategic view of the neighbourhood as the reason. Does he take me for a fool? I know perfectly well what they're up to. J forgets I was his age once and know all the tricks._

_5th_

_Not getting much sleep. Miquel's needless death continues to torment me, especially his last moments. What was he thinking trying to outdraw the cyborg? Even if he didn't know her true nature, he knew what she was capable of with a gun, his two goons told him that much. No, I'm convinced he sought death, not because he feared jail, but because he knew the guilt I'd feel meant I'd never abandon Mia to an unknown fate in some foreign orphanage. So now I have a daughter. A wilful, stubborn, disobedient, beautiful, exquisite daughter. And not the first clue how to raise her!_

_6th_

_Dreamt about K last night. The dream was so vivid it left me feeling incredibly horny. Had no choice but to relieve myself right there and then, while his image was still fresh in my mind. It's three years since Charley. Three years since I shared my bed with a man, unless you count that ridiculous drunken fumble with Jerold Ramirez. Not my finest hour. Luckily he remembered even less about it than I did. And John still suspects nothing; the cyborg kept her word and never blabbed. Who'd have believed that given the snide remarks she makes about my age._

_7th_

_Had a conversation with the dog. Asked him what food he liked - and he answered! The words came up on the gadget the cyborg made. He even told me which brands he preferred! Sometimes it seems I'm living in a bizarre dream world populated by talking dogs and a killer robot as a prospective daughter in law. All I need is for the Mad Hatter and the White Rabbit to show up and they can strap me in the straitjacket and cart me away._

_8th_

_Another row with Mia - after almost breaking my neck tripping over her discarded toys. How hard is it to tidy up after yourself? The thought occurs to me that I might be deliberately goading her into hating me as punishment for causing her father's death. She calls me Senorita Shouty behind my back. It seems curiously apt. Maybe I should get advice on how to deal with her from Dr. Silberman. Imagine if that old fraud heard from me again!_

"What are you doing?"

Sarah Connor's voice. From behind me. I am so busted!

"I said, what are you doing?"

My body is blocking her view of the diary. Carefully I replace it in the drawer and slide it shut. I turn around and say, "I am out of shampoo. I came to borrow yours."

"Bottom left drawer."

I open the drawer specified and take out a bottle of shampoo. "I will return it when I'm done."

"Don't bother. And next time ask before you come in here."

I assure her I will. I pass through the doorway then stop and turn. "I have a name," I tell her.

"What?"

"My name is Cameron."

"I know that. Why are you telling me this?"

"I thought you might have forgotten."

-0-

I return to the bathroom and step under the shower, using the borrowed shampoo to wash my hair. I review what I read in Sarah Connor's diary. Who is K, the man she dreamt about? And why is she expecting a visit from a mad hatter and a white rabbit? They seem unlikely is insuffient data at present to hazard a guess.

_The cyborg..._

She never called me by my name, always this epithet. Here it is not so hard to know why. She still regards me as a machine. You do not name a kettle or a vacuum cleaner; they are merely appliances. To her I am merely an appliance. At least John doesn't see me this way. I take some comfort in this.

I step out of the shower and begin toweling off. The door opens and Mia and Snowy come in. Mia stops when she sees me.

"Oh. Sorry. Didn't know you were in here. I wanted to give Snowy a bath. His paws are filthy and his fur stinks of the pool."

"You may do so; I am almost done."

"You don't mind me seeing you without clothes?"

"Why would I?"

"Some people don't like it."

"I am not some people."

"Sarah yelled at me when I walked in on her."

"She often yells at you."

"Yeah. I call her Senorita Shouty!"

"You don't think this is a hurtful nickname?"

Mia shrugs. "She shouldn't shout so much. It gets old."

"Maybe you could pick your toys up when you are done with them."

"What's the point? I'm only gonna get them out again the next day."

By the time I have finished dressing Mia and Snowy are in the bathtub together. The water has already gone an unappealing shade of brown. I remember it well.

-0-

Mia has always had a bedtime story read to her before she falls asleep, a tradition started by her father in Mexico and one John is keen to continue now we are in America. It will help her settle in. She usually asks John or myself to read to her, never Sarah Connor. The two of them still have 'issues'.

I select a book of nursery ryhmes and begin reading.

"Humpty Dumpty sat on a wall. Humpty Dumpty had a great fall. All the King's horses and all the King's men couldn't put Humpty together again."

"You mean he's dead?" Mia asks.

I confirm the individual Humpty is now deceased; the fall was indeed fatal.

"Is there a picture?"

I show her the book illustration. It depicts the curious eggman, Humpty Dumpty, in pieces at the base of a high wall. Soldiers and their mounts stand idly by. They obviously omitted to bring proper medical supplies, although how you would begin to heal a broken egg is hard to say.

"_Eww! _Is that his insides?"

"He was an egg so it is mostly yolk and albumen."

"If he was an egg what was he doing balanced on a wall"

This is an aspect of the story that puzzles me also. If you are essentially a giant egg then it is extreme folly to perch on a high wall. Gravity willl out and tragedy must inevitably ensue.

"D'you think the soldiers scooped him up and made an omlette out of him?"

"The book doesn't specify."

"I wouldn't want to eat him. I bet Snowy would though. He'll eat anything!"

Snowy looks up from where he is napping at the end of the bed. He seems unabashed to have his appetite impugned this way. It is true; he does eat anything. Except vegetables. He draws the line there.

"Cameron, can I ask you a question?"

"That is a question therefore you have already done so."

"Can I ask you another question?"

"Very well."

"Do you hate me for taking Snowy away from you?"

I hesitate and then reply, "No, I don't hate you."

"Good. Because even if you don't have Snowy you still have John. I know he's not your real brother."

"How do you know this?"

"I've seen you kissing. And one time when he thought no one was looking he put his hand down your pants and touched your noo-noo."

"It's called a noo-noo?"

"Uh huh. So you still have John. For now." she adds with a smirk.

"What do you mean - for now?"

"When I'm older I'm gonna marry John."

I tell her this is unlikely.

"Am too!" she pouts. "One day I'll be beautiful like mama with enormous boobies!" She giggles. "I said boobies!" She and Snowy snigger as usual.

"John still won't marry you, no matter how enormous your boobies."

"Cameron said boobies!" More sniggering. "If John won't marry me then I'll marry Freddie."

"Who is Freddie?"

"The boy on_ iCarly_."

A character on a TV show. As Sarah Connor would say, best of luck with that.

-0-

Once Mia has drifted off to sleep I return to the attic room John and I share. He is still up and I waste no time telling him of Mia's plans.

"Marry me, huh?" He grins. "Well, it's always nice to have a back up."

"Back up!"

"Relax, I'm kidding. It's just a crush she has. Tommorrow it'll be someone else. Justin Bieber probably."

"So you won't marry her even if she does have enormous boobies?"

"I'll try and restrain myself. Besides, I'm a leg man."

"I have legs."

"I noticed." He hugs me from behind and nuzzles my neck with his lips.

"They aren't as long as your mother's," I point out. The nuzzling ceases.

"Major buzzkill mentioning mom."

"I'm sorry I killed your buzz. How can I make it up to you?"

He begins unbuttoning my jeans.

"Oh I'll think of something..."

**-000-**

**The Secret Diary of Sarah Connor anyone? She narrates many eps so I figure she at least keeps a journal.**

**Sarah and Mia. I just liker the idea of this supremely disciplined warrior being flummoxed by a wilful little girl.**

**'I can mute myself if you wish.' Love that line!**


	45. Chapter fortyfive

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

THURSDAY

Picture the scene: a detached house in the city suburbs, little different from the thousands that surround it. A white picket fence. A family car parked in the driveway. A basketball hoop above the garage door and a child's toys haphazardly scattered around the yard. A single mother lives here with her young family: a son, two daughters and their pet dog. All seems normal, nothing whatsoever out of the ordinary.

_Look a little closer..._

Anomalies begin to appear. The mother is fanatical about her fitness, jogging ever longer distances every day. The son and the eldest daughter can be glimpsed holding hands and kissing when they think no one is watching. The little girl is latino, not white like her siblings. She has long conversations with the dog, appearing to understand his frequent barks. At night the older girl doesn't sleep. Instead she patrols the house and yard and wider community. After dark? In LA? Is she mad? No, just very efficient at what she does. You would do well to avoid her if you have mischief on your mind; your life is as meaningless to her as the air she doesn't breathe.

Yet within these innocuous seeming walls are the individuals whose actions will determine the ultimate fate of mankind.

So no biggie...

-0-

It is an awesome responsibility and one which weighs heavily on the shoulders of Sarah Connor. Today she seeks to share that responsibilty by coming to me and requesting my help.

"I've arranged a meet to buy some weapons," she states without preamble. "It's in a rough part of town. Rougher than I'd like. I want you along as backup."

"What about John?"

"He has to stay here. Someone has to look after Mia. Her safety is as much a priority now as the other stuff."

Mia appears in the living room doorway. "What are you two whispering about?" she asks suspiciously.

"Nothing. Go and watch TV."

"It's an ad break. Is it about Snowy? Because he doesn't mean to make everything stink of the pool. The chlorine sticks to his fur no matter how many baths we take."

"It's not about the dog. Go back inside."

"I wanna get some cookies first."

"Why won't you eat the rice cakes I bought you?"

"They taste like cardboard."

"They're healthy and nutritious."

"Still taste like cardboard."

Mia goes into the kitchen and opens the cookie jar, blithely extracting three calorie-laden chocolate chip cookies. She inserts one in her mouth and begins to munch. Sarah Connor frowns but makes no move to prevent her. For someone so rigid and discliplined Mia's small acts of defiance must be infuriating. She should chill. But just try telling her that...

-0-

Sarah Connor and I take the freeway south. She is at the wheel of the Chevy Suburban while I am seated beside her. Traffic is fairly light and free-flowing. It is a sunny day and we are both wearing mirrored Rayban sunglasses that make us look totally badass. I pity the men who would try and mess with us.

"You're very popular with Mia lately," Sarah Connor states, glancing over at me.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning she's asked you to read her a bedtime story three nights in a row. It's always you or John, never me."

"I can imitate voices and John acts things out, making her laugh. You would merely read."

"I thought that was the point?"

"Evidently not."

"She calls me Senorita Shouty."

"It suits you."

This evokes a frown but no comment. "Has she noticed you're different yet?" she asks instead.

""She wonders why I never seem to eat anything."

"What did you tell her?"

"That I eat breakfast before she wakes and supper when she goes to bed."

"So you lied."

"You prefer I tell her the truth?"

"No. But one day the lies won't work."

"I will burn that bridge when I come to it."

"Cross that bridge, not burn."

"Oh. My bad."

"How are you and John?"

"I still satisfy him sexually, if that is what you mean. Although we are running out of_ Kama Sutra_ positions to try. Soon we will have to mix and match."

She groans and shakes her head. "Just what a mother wants to hear. I wish I hadn't asked!"

"Why did you ask?"

"Just making conversation."

"Yes, humans are often uncomfortable with silences and feel the need to fill it with meaningless prattle."

"Aren't you a ray of sunshine."

"Only a ray of sunshine is a ray of sunshine, although quantum theory postulates-"

She interrupts and says, "Let's listen to the radio."

Music fills the vehicle's interior. Early period Green Day. "I know this song," I announce. "The lyrics mention casual drug usage and male masturbation."

Sarah Connor groans again and hastily switches stations. A new song starts up.

I don't know this song," I confess. "Therefore I cannot interpret the lyrics."

"Good."

Charming much? Indeed not.

-0-

We arrive at our destination. Sarah Connor is correct: this is a rougher part of town. The houses are smaller and less well maintained. Yards are overgrown and unkempt. Groups of men loiter on street corners and make little attempt to conceal their weapons. This is gang territory; a virtual warzone.

I like it already.

"This is the address I was given."

We pull up to the kerb. The address is a single story building finished in faded white stucco, no better or worse than its neighbours.

We approach the door. Sarah Connor raps twice on the frame. A small grille at headheight opens and a black face peers at us. "What yo want?" he demands in an unfriendly tone.

"You Paradise?"

"Maybe. Who yo?"

"Sarah. We spoke on the phone."

"Right. Sarah. Yo bring the money?"

"I've brought it."

"Wait. I'll tell Paradise yo here."

The grille closes. Sarah Connor looks around. "Two white women in a place like this we might as well have targets on our backs. If this turns bad you have permission to use extreme force."

A license to kill, in other words. Like James Bond.

The door opens and a tall, slim black man ushers us inside. He is wearing a red silk bandanna round his head. This is called a do-rag. I wonder if I should wear one? I accessorize well.

"Are you Paradise?" Sarah Connor persists as we are led through the house.

"Leroy. Paradise is this way."

"Paradise is an odd name," I comment.

"I wouldn't be telling him that if I was yo."

We enter a room without windows or furnishings. Several wooden crates are piled against one wall. There is the faint whiff of something illicit in the air. My sensors examine the odour and draw their conclusion: marijuana.

A large black man enters the room, more fat than muscle. He doesn't wear a do-rag on his shaved head. Instead he sports multiple gold chains around his neck. Bling.

Sarah Connor says, "Are you Paradise?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm Sarah. We spoke on the phone."

"I speak to a lotta folk on the phone." He nods at me. "Who's babycakes?"

"A friend. I told you I'm looking to buy some merchandise. We agreed a price. Forty thousand."

"Yeah, about that. The deal is now fifty. Overheads and shit."

"Okay...fifty."

"Did I say fifty? I meant sixty."

"Now wait a minute-"

"In fact, I gotta whole new deal in mind. We keep the guns, take yo money and party down on yo pretty white asses."

"Don't be a fool, Paradise."

A pudgy hand reaches out and slaps her across the face. "Don't be calling me no fool, bitch!"

"Then stick to the deal and no one gets hurt."

"Oh yeah? Mebbe I wanna do some hurtin', you ever think of that? Which one yo want first, Leroy?"

Leroy grins in anticipation. "I'll take the mama. She feisty!"

Sarah Connor turns to me and whispers, "This isn't working. Take them down."

I do so. I am quick, clean and efficient. There is minimal blood-letting. Blood is not clean or efficient.

Sarah Connor stares down at the bodies without expression. "Idiots. Sometimes I think we deserve what coming." She nods at the wooden crates. "Might as well take them all."

"Waste not want not," I agree.

-0-

John is surprised to see so many crates. "Wow. Quite a haul. Were they having a sale or something?"

"Or something," I confirm.

"It was a shakedown. They had no intention of selling us anything," Sarah Connor says bitterly.

"You took care of it?"

"I have a license to kill. Like James Bond," I tell him.

"Where's Mia?"

"Playing in the pool with Snowy."

"Put these crates in the spare bedroom. We'll sort them out later. And lock the door. I don't want her finding them and thinking they're toys."

-0-

Later, when we are alone, John quizzes me in more detail about the events of the day.

"These two jerks - Paradise and Leroy - were they armed?"

"No."

"Paradise was a big guy?"

"Approximately two hundred and sixty pounds, more fat than muscle."

John shakes his head. "Mom's handled bigger than that. It makes no sense to kill them."

"You mourn their loss?"

"Hardly. We're not vigilantes. Mom's always been ruthless, but this...I think what happened in Mexico's taken her to a whole new level."

"They were bad men, intent on bad things."

"Oh I don't doubt it. It's what mom's capable of that worries me."

-0-

MONDAY

Today is Mia's first day at school. Sarah Connor has enrolled her in a fee-paying school in Burbank. It requires her to wear a uniform. This soon becomes a fresh source of contention.

"Why can't I wear tanktop and shorts like normal?"

"Because the rules stipulate school uniform."

"What does stipulate mean?"

"You do what you're told."

"The uniform itches!"

"It's fine."

"You don't know! And my shoes are too tight."

"You said they were fiine in the shop."

"That was in the shop; they're too tight now."

As usual John steps in and mediates.

"Wear the shoes for now. If they're too tight at the end of the day we'll buy you some new ones."

"Can Snowy come to school with me?"

"Of course not!"

"But he's really smart!"

"Oh for goodness sake!"

Again John intercedes. "Snowy can come with us to drop you off and he'll be there waiting for you when you come out."

"How long do I have to stay at school for?"

"Until three."

"I won't have any time to play!"

"We'll extend your bedtime by an hour. Now come on. We don't want to be late on your first day."

-0-

Mid-afternoon we receive a phonecall from the school. Mia is in trouble. Or rather she has caused trouble.

"She punched a boy in the face,'" Sarah Connor reports putting down the phone.

John says, "She hasn't been expelled on her first day?"

"No. The boy said something nasty to provoke her. I have to go see the Principal." She shakes her head. "Now I really do know how my mother felt."

"You punched boys in the face?" I ask.

"I was usually caught kissing them."

"So you were a skank."

This is an uncalled for remark apparently.

-0-

We all go to pick Mia up. Sarah Connor escorts her to the Surburban. Mia gets in and hugs Snowy.

"How was it" John asks.

"Oh the usual lecture. Discipline begins at home, no need for violence, blah blah blah."

"That boy deserved it!" Mia insists. "He called me a bad word!"

"Did the word rhyme with trick?"

"Uh huh. Papa say if anyone call me that I have to stick up for myself. I am proud to be Mexican!"

Sarah Connor notices Mia is cradling her right hand. "Did you hurt yourself? Let me see."

Mia extends her hand. The knuckle is red and swollen but no bones are broken.

"I'll put ice on it later. That boy was much bigger than you. Suppose he'd hit you back?"

"Then I hit him harder!"

"When we get home I'll teach you some self-defense moves. At least that way you can protect yourself without getting hurt."

She is true to her word. Once home the two spend the rest of the day practicing self-defense. They both seem to enjoy it. In the evening Mia requests Sarah Connor to read her a bedtime story, the first time she has done so since our arrival. It appears the two of them have finally bonded. Over violence. Go figure.

WEDNESDAY

With Mia away at school for much of the day Snowy finds himself at a loose end. Most days he does a few desultory circuits of the yard, then settles on the pool apron in the shade cast by the diving board for a long nap. Sarah Connor has yet to dig out any vegetable beds so there is little mischief for him to get up to. He seems so lonely and forlorn that I take pity on him and volunteer to take him for a walk.

It is just like old times: Snowy trots ahead of me, straining at the leash, while I maintain an unhurried pace behind. The area where we reside has many wide sidewalks, with grass verges and regularly spaced trees. Snowy insists on interrogating every tree trunk with his nose before the leash tightens and he is yanked away. John told me what it is he's sniffing. It's really gross and I will not record it here.

We encounter few people. Los Angeles is a city of cars. Few humans bother to walk anywhere when they can ride. No wonder so many Americans are obese.

We reach an intersection five blocks from the safehouse and wait for the lights to turn red so we can cross. Also waiting is a man walking a dog of his own. The dog is the same breed as Snowy. And female. The two waste no time in sniffing each other's bottoms. This is how dogs greet each other. I am glad humans do not share the same ritual.

"Cute dog you've got there," The man says to me. He is not much older than John, with short cropped hair and a tee shirt with the slogan THE BUTTHOLE SURFERS on the front. Can you surf buttholes? It seems unlikely. Suppose you fell in?

"Yes, Snowy is cute," I agree.

The man smiles. "Cute owner too."

"I am not his owner."

"Oh. Well, you're cute anyway."

"Thank you."

"I'm Daniel."

"Cameron."

"That's my dog, Lulu. Snowy, did you say yours is?"

I confirm this to be so.

"So you live around here, Cameron?"

I confirm this also.

"Just moved here? Because I walk Lulu everyday and I think I'd haved noticed someone as cute as you before now."

"We have just moved here."

"Listen, there's a park a block or so from here. I usually let Lulu off the leash so she can run around and get some exercise. Think Snowy would like that?"

"Why don't you ask him?"

This provokes a laugh but nothing more. There seems little wrong with this plan so I agree to it.

At the park we release the dogs and they run about together. Snowy wastes no time in telling Lulu about his trip to Mexico. Lulu doesn't say much. Possibly she is shy.

Daniel and I sit on a park bench under the shade cast by a tall chusan palm.

"So, you go to college, Cameron?" he asks.

"No."

"What do you do?"

"I am presently attempting to save the world."

"The Green movement and all that enviromental stuff? I'm totally with you there. I'm studying part-time at UCLA. I was hoping to get into MIT but I got sick in my senior year and my grades kinda suffered."

"Sick?"

"Yeah. Leukemia. Real bummer. Still, all my recent tests were clear, so with any luck I've beat that sucker. Touch wood."

He raps on the wooden slats of the bench. Odd. Possibly he believes in a wooden deity.

"Would you like an ice cream? There's a vendor over there. My treat."

"No, thank you."

"Look at those two," he says indicating Snowy and Lulu. "They sure made friends quick. Good job they've both been snipped, right?"

"Snipped?"

"Yeah, you know, down below..."

"Oh you mean the removal of his bad boys. Yes, he has been snipped."

"Lulu as well. It's for the best."

"Snowy doesn't think so; he misses his bad boys."

Daniel laughs. "Yeah, I can totally relate! The docs told me there was a thirty percent chance the treatment would leave me sterile. I think that scared me more than the prospect of dying."

"Thirty percent means a seventy percent chance it wouldn't," I point out.

"Yeah. For once my luck was in."

"So your bad boys are intact?"

"Last time I looked."

"Do you look often?"

Daniel laughs and shakes his head. "You know, you're like no other girl I've ever met before."

I tell him this is more true than he realizes.

"Do you like buttholes?" I inquire.

"Ah - excuse me?"

"Your tee shirt. Do you surf buttholes?"

"Oh. No, it's the name of a band. I picked this shirt up at a thrift shop on Vine. I thought it seemed kinda cool."

An amber alert icon flashes in my HUD. A reminder that time is passing.

"I must leave now," I inform Daniel. "Come, Snowy."

"So soon? Nothing I said, I hope?"

"No. My sister will be coming out of school soon. She likes her doggie to be there when she gets out."

"He's her dog?"

"Correct."

"Well, maybe I'll see you both again another day?"

"Anything is possible."

-0-

As it transpires we needn't have left so soon. Mia is tardy exiting the school. She is one of the last pupils to leave, preoccupied chatting to a blonde girl and doesn't look up even when I toot the horn.

_snowy see mia! snowy see mia!_

"I have eyes also."

The two girls part and Mia joins us in the Suburban.

"Who is that girl?" I inquire.

"Megan. She's in my class."

"So you have made a friend?"

"I guess. She likes the same TV shows I do."

"Shared interests are often a basis for friendship."

"I suppose. Megan's really phat."

"She didn't appear fat to me."

"Not fat, silly! Phat. P-h-a-t. It means cool."

I add this information to my database. I like to keep my list of modern idiom fully updated. It's groovy, daddy-o.

"Can we go to the skateboard park?"

"No."

"Can we go to the Mall?"

"No."

"Can we get takeout? Please, Cameron, I'm really hungry!"

"Didn't you eat lunch?"

"Yeah, just tattertots and shit."

Tattertots. And shit. It doesn't sound very healthy. Or palatable. I agree to visit a drivethru.

A five minutes later and we pull up beside a giant plastic clown. I roll down the window and Mia leans across me and yells at the clown, "Two burgers. One with cheese and one without. Hold the pickle. Double fries. One regular Coke." Less than a month in the country and already she is adapting well to the customs.

"You want me to supersize the Coke?" asks a tinny disembodied voice, presumably not the clown but an unseen employee.

"Yeah, supersize!"

The order duly arrives and I pay for it. Mia and Snowy eat while I drive.

"Would you like some fries, Cameron?" Mia asks.

"No, thank you."

"You never eat. Megan has a sister exactly like you."

"Exactly? I doubt it."

"It's true! She's always on a diet. And she's saving up for a nosejob. What's a nosejob?"

I consult my database. The information appears on my HUD.

_NOSEJOB_

_Slang. A cosmetic surgical procedure designed to enhance facial appearance._

I divulge these details to Mia.

"_Eww! _So they give you a new nose?"

"Evidently."

"Suppose they give you a pig's nose by mistake?"

"It is likely the surgeon's are competent enough to tell the difference."

Mia touches her nose. "I hope I don't need a new nose. How about you?"

"Mine serves its purpose adequately."

We arrive back at the safehouse. Mia stuffs her mouth full of the last fries then says, "Quick, help me hide the cartons and wrappers before Sarah sees them. She hates me eating junk food."

Now she tells me.

"Cameron? D'you think Sarah likes me?"

"Of course. Why do you doubt this?"

"She's always yelling at me. I told Megan how she is and Megan thinks Sarah needs some Dick. Does she know anyone named Dick?"

"I don't think so. She knew a Derek, but he died."

"No Dick?"

I confrim there is presently no Dick in Sarah Connor's life.

"Why does it have to be someone named Dick?"

"I don't know. Megan didn't explain." Mia admits. "Maybe if tell her to find a Dick to play with she'll stop yelling at me?"

I agree this is worth a try.

**-0-**

To my surprise John becomes agitated when I tell him of the day's activities.

"Cam, that guy you met was totally hitting on you!"

"He was?"

"He invited you to the park, offered to buy you something to eat, told you intimate details about himself. Hell - it was practically a date!"

"Oh."

"It didn't occur to you to mention me?"

"No."

"I see."

John is grumpy for the rest of the day, even snapping at Mia when she spills some Cola on the floor. I have obviously made him jealous. Is this a good thing or bad? I have no frame of reference and decide to seek advice. Mia is too young, which leaves a choice between Snowy and Sarah Connor.

After much deliberation, I decide on the latter.

-0-

I find her in the kitchen loading dirty plates intot the dishwasher.

"Is is too hard for that girl to put her dirty plates on the counter like I told her? Know where I found this? Under a sofa cushion. How did it get there?"

I agree it is a mystery worth of Hercule Poirot. This is called being facetious. It earns me a frown but no reprimand. Possibly she is mellowing.

"I need your advice," I explain.

"_You _need my advice? Since when?"

"Since now."

I recount the events of the day and John's reaction to them.

"You did kind of lead this guy on."

"I did?"

"When he invited you to the park would've been a good time to mention a boyfriend."

"What should I do?"

"Will you see this Daniel again?"

"Snowy has expressed a strong desire to see LuLu again."

"Well, if you run into this guy tell him you're seeing someone. Chances are he'll back off."

"And if not, do I still have a license to kill?"

"What? Of course not! You can't terminate every man who looks twice at you - you'll decimate half of LA."

This sounds suspiciously like a compliment.

-0-

When I return to the attic room I find John still up.

"Tomorrow I'll walk Snowy," he states. "And if we run into this Daniel...well, he'll learn a thing or two.

But John doesn't walk Snowy the next day. No one does. The next day Snowy gets sick.

Very sick.

**-000-**

**The Butthole Surfers. An actual band. Never got much radio play. Can't imagine why.**

**What's wrong with Snowy. There are a couple of clues. Will I off the doggie?**

**Keep reading...**


	46. Chapter fortysix

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

THURSDAY

"He won't speak to me! He just lies there!" Mia wails.

Snowy does indeed just lie on the floor of her bedroom, eyes closed. The only indication he is still alive the gentle rise and fall of his chest as he breathes.

"What's the matter, fella?" John asks kneeling down and stroking Snowy's fur. "Can you tell me what's wrong?"

Snowy can't; he can barely open his eyes.

"He is he sick? He is gonna get better?" Mia demands tearfully.

I don't know. But I know someone who might."

-0-

The vet's surgery is a single storey white building situated just off the turnpike. I cradle Snowy in my arms while John drives the Suburban. Mia is at home. It is thought she might become hysterical if the prognosis is bad.

The waiting room is full of sick pets and their anxious owners. There are several dogs present. Snowy makes no attempt to bark a greeting or sniff their posteriors. He must be really be sick since he usually loves nothing more than sniffing butt.

The vet is a young man in a white lab coat. He gently manipulates Snowy's limbs and probes his abodomen. "No broken bones and no nasty swellings. That's good. How long he's been like this?"

"It happened quite suddenly," John says. "He was fine yesterday."

"Has he been in any fights with other animals?"

"I don't think so."

"Anyone in your area spraying pesticides?"

"I'm pretty sure they aren't."

He leans down and sniffs Snowy's fur. "Has he been in a swimming pool?"

"Yeah, he plays with our little sister in the pool."

"How often is he in the pool?"

"Couple of times a day."

"I think that's the problem. Chlorine posioning. You see, dogs don't have sweat glands. They don't perspire to keep cool the way we do. They hang their tongues out of their mouths and cool off that way. Chances are he's ingested a fair bit of pool water by accident. The chemicals have overloaded his kidneys."

"Can you make him better?"

"I'll give him a couple of shots. He needs rest and to be kept hydrated. If he won't drink by himself you need to squirt water into his mouth with a pipette. I won't lie to you, his kidneys will either recover or they won't. If he's no better in five days the kindest thing will be to put him to sleep."

Put him to sleep. A euphemism for termination.

For death.

-0-

Once home we lay Snowy on Mia's bed and make him comfortable. There is little to do now but wait.

FRIDAY

Snowy no better. Mia refuses to go to school and for once Sarah Connor relents and allows her to stay home.

SATURDAY

Snowy no better. John uses a pipette to squirt water into Snowy's mouth as the vet advised.

Mia weeps and demands to know why God hates her and doesn't want her to have any family or friends to love. For once even John is lost for a satisfactory answer.

SUNDAY

Snowy no better. I overhear John and his mother discussing whether or not they should buy Mia another puppy if Snowy doesn't pull through. They are rapidly losing faith.

MONDAY

Snowy opens his eyes and accepts a small piece of meat which he takes an age to chew. We all agree to this a positive sign.

TUESDAY

Snowy sits up and eats more pieces of meat. He is able to drink unaided. More positive signs.

WEDNESDAY

Snowy off the bed and moving around. He seems back to his old self.

_snowy feel better now!_

"I can see. You had us all worried there, fella," John tells him, ruffling his fur.

_snowy play in the pool with mia?_

Mia bursts into tears.

"No more pool for you. That's how you got sick," John explains gently.

_snowy love the pool!_

"You want to get sick again? No more pool. Hear me? Or I'll drain the water out so no one can use it. When you've got your strength back I'll take you and Mia to the beach."

_snowy love the beach!_

"Just try not to swallow the ocean."

-0-

FRIDAY

The air-conditioning unit in the attic room is malfunctioning. While John is busy downstairs I strip it down to its component parts and make the necessary repairs, adding some design improvements of my own devising. I leave it running while I go downstairs and attend to my other chores.

Later, when John goes up to change clothes, he discovers the temperature in the room is now ten below freezing. Ice has formed on the windows and the floor is covered in a light dusting of snow. Quite rare in Los Angeles. Especially indoors.

"Cameron!" John yells. "What did you do to my room?"

"I repaired the air conditioner," I explain.

"How - by turning my room into a meat locker?"

"It might require fine tuning."

"No kidding?"

He wrenches open the wardrobe door. All his clothes are frozen stiff as a board.

"I guess I'm wearing what I'm standing up in."

He pulls the power cord out of the a/c and opens a window, letting the warm air circulate.

"Let the place defrost. Don't let Mia or Snowy up here or they'll want to keep it like this and build a snowman."

-0-

MONDAY

It is my turn to drive Mia to school. On arrival she hugs Snowy and waves me goodbye. A blonde girl her age waits at the gate, her new friend Megan presumably. The phat girl. The two walk inside together, smiling and chatting amicably.

I am about to put the Suburban in gear and drive home when a woman I have never seen before indicates I should wait.. She is older than the children so I deduce she is a teacher not a pupil. A plastic nametag on her jacket lapel strongly suggests her name is Donna. I roll down the window so we can converse.

"Hi, I'm Donna Helstrom, Mia's form teacher. You must be her sister?"

I tell her this assumption is correct.

"I need to give you this." She hands me a brown paper envelope. "It's Mia's report card. We like to hand it directly to a member of the family. If we give to the children to take home it has a tendency not to arrive, if you know what I mean."

I don't but make no comment. Instead I tear open the envelope. Mia has received A grades in all subjects except English where she got a B.

"She's an exceptionally bright girl," Donna Helstrom tells me. "Where did she go to school prior to here?"

"At an abandoned quarry in the badlands of Mexico."

"Ah. Well, it's certainly done her no harm. Is that Snowy the dog?" she asks, indicating Snowy in the seat next to me.

"You know Snowy?"

"Oh yes. Mia writes stories about him. He's a talking dog apparently." She smiles. "Kids and their imaginations!"

Snowy begins barking.

_mia write story about snowy? snowy famous!_

Donna Helstrom takes a step back. "Oh dear. Did I do something to upset him?"

"Please remain calm, Donna Helstrom. He is merely indicating his happiness at being written about."

"Ri-ght...Well, I - _uh _- better back inside. Nice to have met you."

She hurries away.

_snowy like mia's teacher!_

"She seemed pleasant enough," I agree. "A trifle skittish perhaps."

-0-

John and his mother are impressed with Mia's grades.

"Wow. Looks like we're raising a little genius," John grins.

"A genius who still won't tidy up after herself," Sarah Connor carps.

Perversely the person least impressed by her report card is Mia herself. When she arrives home from school later in the afternoon she merely shrugs and says, "It's no big deal. School's easy. Papa's lessons were harder."

"Even so you should be very proud of yourself," John insists. "A new school. A new country. Amazing. I know what it's like, believe me."

Another shrug. "Whatever."

"You want some extra help with English? I mean, a B's great but it's a shame not to have straight A's."

"The English teacher hates me! He calls me Mya. I tell him it's pronounced Mee-a yet he still calls me Mya. So I tell him he's an_ idioto."_

"I think that explains the B."

"You have to respect your teachers," Sarah Connor tells her.

"Even if they're idiots?"

"Especially if they're idiots."

"I'll think about it. No promises. Can I ask a question?"

"Sure. You can ask us anything."

"Why are there guns in one of the bedrooms upstairs?"

Silence. "Why d'you think there are guns upstairs?" Sarah Connor asks in a neutral tone.

"Because sometimes you, John and Cameron smell of guns. Papa smelt the same. And he had lots of guns."

John decides on a version of the truth. "The guns are for protection from some bad people who are after us."

"Are the bad people after me?"

"No. They don't know anything about you."

"If they find us will we have to leave?"

"They won't find us. Don't worry."

"Good. I like living here. So does Snowy. He says it's even nicer than the last place he lived, though he misses Jerold and Alys. Who are they?"

"Friends who lived next door."

"Can I meet them?"

John shakes his head. "I'm afraid not. They live across town. And if we get in touch the bad people might be able to use them to track us down."

Mia nods solemnly as if being hunted is the most normal thing in the world. "Okay. C'mon, Snowy, let's go and watch TV."

John watches her go. "That is one bright kid. Of course she knows what guns smell like - her father was the biggest gunrunner in Mexico."

Sarah Connor says, " She didn't seem too upset that people are after us."

"Which is a blessing." John checks Mia is out of earshot before saying, "I've managed to trace Miquel's bank account. For a communist who hated America he sure didn't mind using our banks."

"Can you access it?"

"Yeah. The password's dorwssap. That's password spelt backwards. Not the smartest move in the book."

"How much is there?"

"Little over ten thousand."

"Doesn't seem much considering the value of the drugs he was smuggling."

"That's what I thought. I did some more digging. There's another account in Mia's name."

"How much there?"

"Almost a hundred thousand. He was obviously providing for her future. I think he knew the drug cartel would never let him just walk away, so he was preparing an escape route for his daughter. It probably explains why he sought out Andre Cordoba to forge documents."

"Until we arrived and ruined it all."

"Mom, what happened wasn't our fault."

"I wish I could believe that."

"What should I do with the money?"

Sarah Connor thinks for a moment. "Move the ten to our account. We might as well get some use out of it."

"And the hundred?"

"Open another account in Mia's new name. Maybe one day it'll put her through college."

"Okay. Oh, one other thing...I found a photograph of Miquel's wife. Do you want to see?"

Sarah Connor hesitates then says, "Show me."

She stares at the photo for a long moment. "She was beautiful."

"Yeah. If Mia grows up looking like that in a few years we'll be beating the boys off with a stick."

"Don't worry," I assure him. "I will beat off the boys for you."

"You will, huh?" John grins.

"Yes. I will beat off the boys."

John and his mother exchange smiles. I get the sense I have accidentally said something amusing. How I don't know.

What is funny about me beating off boys?

-0-

SATURDAY

Mia has built a robot. Out of Lego bricks.

"His name's Ricardo," she announces proudly.

"Ricardo the robot?"

"Uh huh. My. Name. Is. Ri-car-do. How. May. I Serve. You?" she says in a tinny-sounding voice. Do we talk like that? I think not.

Ricardo's arms fall off.

"That keeps happening. Stupid Lego!"

She conducts hasty repairs.

"My friend Megan says one day every house will have a robot. They'll do all the chores and obey our every command so we can just lie around and watch TV all day."

"Suppose they don't want to obey you?"

"They gotta!"

"We don't gotta."

"We?"

_Oops._

"I mean, they don't gotta."

"Robots can't think for themselves, silly. They just obey orders. There. He's all better._ Hello. I. Am. A. Robot. How. May. I-"_

Ricardo's legs fall off.

"Stupid robot!"

Mia flings the robot at the wall in frustration. He shatters into its component bricks. Ricardo lacks even a rudimentary self-repair system so merely languishes on the floor in small pieces.

I share his humiliation.

-0-

SUNDAY

While the human and canine occupants of the house sleep I retrieve the scattered remnants of Ricardo the robot and take him down to the basement. Here I repair him, adding some significant upgrades to Mia's crude handiwork. I use a plastic bonding agent to ensure the Lego bricks will no linger suffer catatrosphic failure. I add circuitry and small servo motors at the major joints to give him some mobility. A modified CPU from a cellphone grants him sentience via some primitive reprogramming, including a facial recognition program. Power will come from a laptop battery pack I modify to form part of his ambdomen.

When I am done I place Ricardo by Mia's bed so she will find him when she wakes.

-0-

"Wow, you rebuilt Ricardo!" Mia exclaims on waking. Snowy sniffs the robot suspiciously.

"Not merely rebuilt, improved," I inform her. "Watch."

I switch Ricardo on. He boots up and begins to scan his surroundings._ "Greetings, stranger," _he says to Mia._ "Please state name for identification purposes."_

"Mia!"

_"Greetings, Mia. Are you friend or foe?"_

"Friend, silly."

_"Affirmative. Mia indexed as friend, silly."_

John puts his head round the door. "Mom says breakfast is on the table. What's that?"

_"Greetings, stranger. Please state name for identification purposes."_

John says nothing. He seems slightly dumbstruck to be addressed by an eighteen inch tall robot made of Lego bricks. Mia answers for him.

"John."

_"Greetings, John. Are you friend or foe?"_

"Uh - friend, I guess."

_"Affirmative. John indexed as friend, I guess."_

"Isn't he cool!" Mia smiles. "Wll he do my chores for me?"

I tell her this is unlikely since Ricardo lacks fingers to pick things up. Lego bricks have their limitations.

"Well, he's still cool. Ricardo, march up and down."

_"I obey Mia, friend, silly."_

Sarah Connor appears in the doorway. "Aren't you up yet? Breakfast is on the table."

"Look. Cameron built me a robot."

Ricardo swivels round and scans Sarah Coonor. _"Greetings, stranger. Please state name for identification purposes."_

When she makes no attempt to reply Mia says, "Sarah."

_"Greetings, Sarah. Are you friend or foe?"_

Sarah Connor regards him with hostile eyes. "Foe" she states emphatically before turning around and going back downstars.

_"Affirmative. Sarah indexed as foe."_

"What's that mean?" John asks. "He 's not gonna attack mom, is he?"

"No," I assure him. "Ricardo lacks offensive capabilites. I thought it prudent to omit them after the roboraptor unpleasantness."

"Prudent is right. It nearly tore that girl's head off."

Mia spends the rest of the day interacting with Ricardo, teaching him the names of things and having him follow her round the house like a puppy dog.

Like Snowy in other words.

The one person even less enamoured of Ricardo than Sarah Connor is Snowy, who sulks at the amount of attention she is lavishing on the tiny robot. During the night while most of the house sleeps he picks up Ricardo in his jaws, takes him outside to the yard and drops him in the pool where the water shorts circuits his electrics.

MONDAY

"How did he get in the pool?" Mia asks when Ricardo's whereabouts is discovered. "D'you think he wandered off in the dark and accidentally fell in?"

"I don't think this was an accident," John says retrieving Ricardo from his watery grave. "See the tooth marks in the plastic? I think a certain doggie did this."

"Snowy? Why would Snowy drop Ricardo in the pool?"

"Why don't we ask him."

At first Snowy denies all responsibility only to cave in when John questions him further. He is not good under pressure.

_mia like ricardo better than snowy!_

He whimpers pathetically.

Mia hugs him to her chest. "Of course I don't! I love you, not some silly robot. No one can love a robot."

"They can't?" I ask, alarmed by this revelation.

"No. Robots are dumb and ugly."

"Oh I don't know," John grins wrapping his arms around my waist. "Some are pretty smart." He kisses the nape of my neck. "Cute too."

"Cameron's not a robot, silly!" Mia giggles. "Be cool if she was though."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"She could do all my chores for me."

"I think Cameron does enough for you. Haven't you noticed your toys are being put away after you're done with them? Who do you think does that - the toy fairy?"

"That's Cameron?"

"Sure is. I think you should say thank you, don't you?"

"Thanks, Cameron."

"You're welcome."

Snowy is forgiven and Ricardo is put on a high shelf to dry out. And to keep him out of Snowy's reach.

SATURDAY

Today John makes good on his promise to take Mia and Snowy to the beach. They are gone most of the day, returning in the early evening. Mia requests I read her a bedtime story which affords me an opportunity to quiz her about the day.

"Were there lots of people at the beach?"

"Yeah, lots and lots!"

"Were there any girls in bikinis?"

"Uh huh."

"Did any speak to John?"

"There was one girl. Her bikini was so small you could totally see her butt cheeks." She puts her hand to her mouth and giggles. "I said butt cheeks!"

More giggles. I wait for them to subside then ask. "What did she and John talk about?"

"I don't know. Snowy and I were busy making a sandcastle. You should have seen it - it was huge! As big as this house!"

I consider this highly unlikely but let it pass. I have more pressing concerns. The girl with the exposed butt cheeks for one. "Did John seem happy talking to the girl?"

"I guess. I think he told her a joke. She laughed quite a bit."

"What was the joke?"

Mia doesn't remember and the exertions of the day take their toll and she soon falls asleep before I have barely begun questioning her.

-0-

John is still up when I return to the attic room. "Fell asleep quick tonight?" he says. "Thought she would. Busy day. You should've seen the size of the sandcastle she built."

"Was it as big as a house?"

"Almost!" John laughs.

"Please tell me about the girl with the exposed butt cheeks."

"Huh?"

I divulge the information Mia gave me. John simply shrugs. "Oh her. I think her name was Dayna. Something like that. She was more interested in Snowy. Said he reminded her of a dog she had as a kid. Man, that dog's popular with chicks!"

"You told her a joke."

"Did I? I guess so."

"Was it the one about the rabbi, the stripper and the three foot salami? Because I still don't understand how the salami came to be inserted in such an unusual place."

"No, it wasn't that one. I wouldn't tell that when Mia's around."

"What joke was it?"

"You really want to know?"

"Yes."

John sighs. "Okay...A penguin goes into a bar. Walks up to the barman and asks, Has my brother been in? The barman says, Don't know. What's he look like?"

I wait. John doesn't continue. I ask, "Had the penguin's brother been in?"

"Cam, that's the joke."

"A talking penguin is funny?"

"No. The barman says, What's he look like? All penguins look the same."

"So the barman is retarded and mental illness is funny?"

Another sigh. "No, that's not it either."

"Where is this bar situated?" I ask. "Penguins inhabit Antartica. It seems an unlikely locale for a bar. Wild animals would be the only clientle and they seldom carry sums of money."

"Cam, let it go. It's just a joke."

**-0-**

I don't let it go. My CPU continues to analyse the joke long after John has fallen asleep. There are so may unknown factors. Who was the mysterious penguin? Why did his brother frequent the bar in the first place? Did he have a drinking problem? Possibly he was an alcoholic penguin and his brother was concerned about his welfare. Why did the bar hire an employee who was so ill-suited for the postition? So many questions and yet so few answers.

As night falls I go downstairs to begin patrolling. I find Snowy in the kitchen eating a late night snack, his appetite now fully restored after his illness. I decide to tell the joke to him and see if he understands it better than I do.

"A penguin goes into a bar at an unspecified location, possibly Antarctica," I begin. "The penguin asks the employee, Has my bother been in? The employee doesn't know because he is mentally challenged."

Snowy doesn't laugh or snigger. He stares at me briefly then resumes eating.

It is possible I told the joke incorrectly.

**-000-**

**Chlorine poisoning is a hazard for small animals, normally by drinking pool water. Their kidneys overload. No idea if Snowy's recovery is feasible - couldn't bring myself to total the little varmint tho!**

**The old penguin goes into a pub/bar gag. Funnier after a few beers. Most things are.**

**Noticed a surge in hits recently. I understand TSCC is now on US Syfy. Welcome all you newbies! **


	47. Chapter fortyseven

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MONDAY

It is early morning. I stand at the attic room window and observe, a sentinel once more.

From this high vantage point I have a clear view of the neighbourhood we live in. To the left is the property of a middle-aged couple named Frank and Coral. Frank owns a chain of auto-repair shops in the city. They have a hot tub in the back yard instead of a pool. A hot tub is a cross between an outdoor bath and a large washing machine. At the weekends they invite various people over and sit in the hot tub, consuming large quantites of alcohol. I have heard Sarah Connor speculate that Frank and Coral are swingers. I do not know what this means and she didn't elaborate. Certainly parts of Frank and Coral swing since they are both very overweight. Mostly they wobble. Possibly they are wobblers as well as swingers? I will clarify the matter at a later date.

To the right live Joel and Anna, two teachers at a nearby school. They own a cat named Mr Tibbles who spends the daylight hours sleeping and sunning himself on the wooden decking beside their house. At night Mr Tibbles roams far and wide. Our paths often cross when I am on patrol and we exchange nods of recognition, one predator to another. Mr Tibbles is a skilled and ruthless hunter of small rodents. Yet he never eats what he catches, killing merely for fun or to assuage some base instinct domesticity hasn't managed to tame. He is crafty, burying or hiding his victims so no one suspects he is anything other than a loveable if slightly lazy housecat. Mr Tibbles never ventures into our yard. Snowy believes this is down to his presence, since cats are supposed to be fearful of dogs. This is not the case. Like all animals Mr Tibbles senses I am not human and is careful to give me a wide berth. Of all the animals I have ever encountered only Snowy has shown the least empathy for my kind.

I turn from the window and close my eyes. I boost my audio sensors to maximum and allow the house to talk to me. Not literally, of course. No, that would be crazy. Yet the house does make distinctive noises I can isolate and identify from repetition. The low bass sounds the wooden frame makes as the exterior of the house expands as the sun heats it. The soft gurgle of the water in the plumbing, exacerbated to a tsunami of sound when someone opens a faucet. The high thin whine of the air-conditioning units. From outside intrude the sounds of distant traffic, the hiss of lawn sprinklers, and right at the limit of my sensorum the feral screech of a lone weedwhacker as a yard maintenance crew make an early start. Elsewhere comes the buzz of a power saw and the brisk ratatatat of a nailgun impacting on plywood as a construction crew begin work. Humans are always building something, filling their brief lives with activity while striving to harness the enviroment to their own peculiar designs. One hundred years ago this area was orange groves. Now it is tract housing with swimming pools and barbecue pits. Progress? Of a sort.

I open my eyes and find John staring up at me from the bed. "You okay?" he asks. "You seemed kinda zoned out."

"Five by five," I reply. This is a military expression meaning all is well.

"Sit."

He pats the bed next to him and I do so. We kiss. This is unlikely to be a prelude to coitus. Satistical analysis shows that less than five percent of our sexual activity occurs in the early hours, the majority whilst we share a shower. John is not a morning person.

"I've been thinking."

"About me?" I ask hopefully.

"Actually, yeah."

_Score!_

"I've been thinking about those encrypted files in your chip."

"Oh. That's not very romantic."

"Maybe not. I think it might be important though. I want to take a look at them. If it was me who put them there then maybe I can figure out how to crack them."

"You wish to extract the chip from my head."

"No. It's too dangerous. I don't want to run the risk of damaging you. We have a spare - remember?"

"Cameron subprime."

"Exactly."

**-0- **

The desert is blooming. Even in such a desolate place nature's annual cycle of renewal is occurring.

John pays scant heed to the flowering landscape. His eyes are fixed on the screen of his cellphone, reading off the GPS coordinates that will tell us where Cameron subprime is buried.

"Here, I think. Start digging."

I insert a shovel into the gritty desert soil and begin digging. John retreats to the shade cast by the Suburban. I excavate the soil in a steady, methodical manner. I don't tire. I don't perspire. These words do not feature in my lexicon.

"I've found her."

John approaches the trench I have dug and jumps in. Revealed at the base is a body shrouded in canvas. He carefully brushes off the soil and peels back one corner.

"Oh. Her flesh hasn't rotted. I thought she'd just be an endo-skeleton by now."

"The pseudo-flesh will continue to regenerate as long as there is power in the fuelcell," I explain. My kind have even better longevity than Duracell bunnies.

John picks up the small glass jar with the chip in that we buried along with Cameron subprime. He climbs out of the hole.

"Okay. Got what we came for. I guess we rebury her."

**-0-**

Once home John heads up to the attic room where he spends the rest of the day hooking the chip up to his computer and examining the contents.

He comes downstairs in the early evening looking crestfallen.

"Couldn't break the encryption," he admits rubbing his eyes. "If it was me who locked those files away then I used techniques I haven't learnt yet."

I give him a consoling kiss. "You did your best."

"And it wasn't good enough."

"It will be. One day."

TUESDAY

John and I drive Mia to school. When we arrive she hugs Snowy goodbye and John hands over her school bag.

"Be good, munchkin. And if you can't be good then don't get caught."

Mia giggles. "That's funny!"

"Why is it funny?" I ask, curious.

"It just is."

Helpful much? I think not.

"Mia was in a good mood today," John says as we begin the drive home.

"She has show and tell first period," I explain. "She is looking forward to it very much."

"Yeah? What's she showing and telling?"

"Ricardo the robot."

John hits the brakes so fiercely I am catapulted forward and only the seat restraints prevent me from crashing through the windsreen.

"She's using that robot you built for show and tell?"

"Correct. Is something wrong?"

"Cam, in Japan they spend millions trying to invent robots that aren't half as sophisticated as the one you made out of Lego bricks. The kids may not realise it but one of the teachers sure will. The last thing we need is a newscrew on our doorstep. We have to stop her."

The Suburban makes an illegal U-turn and we head back the way we came.

-0-

With the children in class the school corridors seem eerily quiet and deserted. Neither of us knows the whereabouts of Mia's classroom and there are more than a dozen of them. My suggestion that I demolish all the doors until we locate her goes unheeded.

"Let's try the lockers. Maybe Ricardo's stowed in there and we can grab him back without anyone knowing."

The lockers are similar to the ones found in the high schools we attended - except for one small detail. These have the student's names on the front. Very helpful.

"Okay, here's Mia's." He glances around. We are still alone. "Break it open. Discreetly."

I tear off the door. It clangs noisily on the floor.

"I said discreetly," John chides.

The locker is empty save for some textbooks and a colour photograph of Snowy. No Ricardo.

A woman emerges from one of the classrooms carrying a pile of books in her arms. I surmise she is most likely a teacher. She stops when she notices us and frowns at the broken door.

"Who are you? Did you break that?"

"No. Probably -_ uh _- rust."

"Rust is bad," I agree. "Also very itchy."

"Maybe you can help us. We need to find our little sister right away. She's a pupil here."

"I'm afraid the children are all at their lessons. You'll have to wait until recess."

"We can't wait that long. It's a family emergency,'" John adds.

"Oh. In that case I suppose we can bend the rules. What's your sister's name?"

John tells her and she hurries off to fetch Mia.

"Hope we made it in time," he says with feeling.

Mia emerges from one of the classrooms and walks towards us, the bag with Ricardo the robot inside slung casually over her shoulder.

"What is it?" she asks anxiously. "Snowy's not sick again, is he?"

"Snowy's fine. D'you have the robot Cameron built for you?"

"Ricardo? Yeah, he's in my bag. I'm gonna show and tell any second. It'll be awesome!"

"I can't let you show and tell Ricardo, Mia. I'm sorry."

"Why not? I'm bound to get an A. I've taught Ricardo to sing the Mexican anthem. He's so cool!"

"Remember the bad people after us? Well, it's possible if they hear about Ricardo they'll know it's us and try extra hard to find us."

"But what am I gonna show and tell? I've nothing else. I'll get a failing grade - like Jenny Barlow! And she's an total idiot who eats her own boogers!"

Mia seems so distraught at the prospect of resembling the booger eating Jenny Barlow that John takes pity on her and suggests, "How about you take the day off and come with us?"

"Can I do that?"

"Sure. I already told a teacher it's a family emergency. It'll seem downright suspicious if you don't take the day off."

"Okay! Can we go to the skateboard park?"

"I don't see why not."

"I've never cut class before," Mia admits as we walk out of the school. "My friend Megan does it all the time. She tells her mom she has cramps and needs the rag. What's that mean?"

"Uh - I don't know," John replies unconvincingly, his face reddening. "Maybe you should ask mom later."

"I don't think so. She's still mad at me because I ate five Pop tarts in a row. I mean, what's her damage? She's always on at me to eat more fruit and when I do she's still mad."

"Are Pop tarts fruit?"

"There's a picture of fruit on the box."

"I don't think it's the same as fresh fruit. Did you really eat five in a row? Respect."

"Uh huh. I felt a bit ill afterwards. But I didn't barf," she adds defiantly.

Once back at the safe house Mia runs upstairs to change out of her school uniform and grab her skateboard, the one John bought for her in San Diego. John explains the change of plans and the reason for it to Sarah Connor. She agrees he did the right thing. She frowns in my direction without saying anything. It is clear she blames me for this situation. Honestly, I get the blame for everything.

**-0-**

The skateboard park is like a regular park except it has a hemisphere of curved concrete in the middle of it. This is called a halfpipe.

As it's a school day there are fewer people here than normal. One person standing nearby to watch the skateboarders perform has a large dog on a leash. My database informs me the dog is a Rottweiler, a breed know for its aggressive nature.

While John helps Mia don her protective arm- and knee-pads, Snowy bounds around barking.

_is it snowy's turn yet? snowy love skateboards! is it snowy's turn yet?_

This gets the attention of the Rottweiler who snarls menacingly, straining at its leash to get at this small, noisy interloper.

Then the Rottweiler notices me.

The change in demeanour is abrupt and total. The snarls become whimpers and the large dog tries to hide behind its owner's legs. Like all animals it has sensed I am not human and this knowledge terrifies it. _Plus la change_.

The dog's owner notices this sea change in his pet but misinterprets the reason. "Jeez, Tyson, you're not scared of that pissant little dog, are you? You're twice his size. Nut up, dammit, you're making me look bad."

The Rottweiler - Tyson, presumably - doesn't nut up, whatever that means. Tyson begins to tremble uncontrollably and finally voids his bladder. All over his owner's sneakers.

"Dammit, to hell, Tyson! Look what you've done. Brand new Converses too! Come on, we're out of here."

As Tyson is led away Snowy barks proudly:

_big dog scared of snowy!_

"So it seems," I agree.

Why burst his bubble?

-0-

"Okay, you're all set, champ. You ready for this?" John asks as he makes the final checks to Mia's safety gear.

"Yeah!"

"Take it easy at first. No one gets a prize for breaking bones."

This is very true. Or else I would have won a great many prizes.

"You gotta watch me."

"We will," John assures her.

"Cameron won't. She'll stare off into space like she always does."

This is not strictly accurate. I am scanning the perimeter for possible threats, although Mia doesn't realise this.

"I told my friend Megan and she says Cameron sounds like a stoner. What's that mean?"

"It means your friend Megan is talking out of her ass," John retorts. "Cameron sees more than you can possibly imagine."

"John said ass!" Giggles ensue.

After composing herself Mia launches down the halfpipe, picking up speed as she descends. She crosses the flat bottom and allows the momentum to carry her up the opposite slope. When it seems certain she will fly off the rim and break the bones John cautioned her against she skilfully pivots the skateboard, bringing the front end up and the rear round in one smooth movement. Back she goes down the slope. And does it again. And again.

"Wow, she's good," John opines.

"You're better," I assure him.

"Oh I doubt it. Haven't boarded in years. And I don't have that low center of gravity anymore. She's picked it up in a matter of weeks."

Mia's traverses get faster and faster until finally she stumbles and sprawls across the concrete. This is called a wipeout. "I'm okay!" she grins ruefully, getting up and tucking her board under one arm before rejoining us, face flushed red with exertion. "Did you see? Wasn't I awesome?"

"The awesomest," John concedes, somewhat ungrammatically.

"I_ own _this pipe!"

"Unlikely. This is municipal property," I point out. "It belongs to the city."

Laughter. Once again I have taken someone's words too literally. It is not the first time and will probably not be the last.

"Okay, Snowy's turn."

Snowy bounds forward, tail wagging enthusiastically. Mia lifts him onto the board and gently launches him down the slope. The board picks up speed, crosses the flat base of the halfpipe, then climbs the far slope, almost but not quite reaching the lip. Gravity takes hold and the board rolls backwards. Snowy deftly turns around so he facing the right direction. He has no means of steering or stopping, a mere passenger of gravity.

"Look at him! Isn't he adorable!"

John and Mia laugh at Snowy's antics. I don't laugh. I have seen something they haven't.

_Someone is watching us._

_Someone is filming us._

On the opposite side of the halfpipe a heavy set man is holding up a cellphone. Such devices have video cameras.

The man continues to film even as I approach him, oblivious to the danger. I snatch the cellphone from his grasp and crush it into tiny pieces with my hand.

"Hey! What d'you think you're playing at, you crazy bitch!"

He shoves me hard in the chest and seems surprised that I don't budge. He is even more surprised when I grip his neck and lift him off the ground. He begins to make choking sounds. It is just like old times.

_"Cam, no! Put him down."_

I obey John's instructions. The man staggers slightly as I release him then turns to glare at me, rubbing his throat as he does so.

"What happened?" John demands.

"He was filmiing us," I explain.

"Why were you filming us?"

"I wasn't filming you," the man insists. "I was filming the dog."

"Snowy? Why?"

"Dude, it's a dog riding a freaking skateboard. Funny as hell. I was gonna post it on YouTube. Till your crazyass girlfriend broke my cell."

I analyse the stress levels in his voice and announce, "He's telling the truth. My bad."

John takes out his wallet and says, "A misunderstanding. Here, I'll pay for the phone. Three hundred, okay?"

"No way, man. That's a highend Motorola. Four hundred or I call the cops. That's wilful destruction of property. And assault," he adds rubbing his neck once more.

John produces more bills and offers them over. The man takes them with ill grace and departs.

"We were in the background of the shot," I explain. "My kind will be checking all media outlets. Had he posted the clip on the internet we could be traced."

"You did the right thing," John agrees. "Just check with me next time. There's a better way to handle it."

"How?"

John pressses up against me, so close our bodies are touching. He is attempting coitus? In a crowded park? In front of Mia?

"Got your cell with you?"

"Of course."

"Show me."

I reach into my pocket. Empty.

"Looking for this?"

He brandishes my cell in front of my face, grinning.

"You picked my pocket," I accuse him.

"Sneaky, huh. And a lot more cost effective."

-0-

Mia stares at me open mouthed with shock as we rejoin her and Snowy.

"Wow, Cameron's a major badass! That guy was huge and she just lifted him off the ground with one hand. What'd he do anyway?"

"Videoed Snowy with his cell."

"So? Snowy wouldn't mind. He loves it when people make a fuss of him."

"I know,sweetie, but we were in the background. If certain people had seen it they might've-"

"-tracked us down," Mia finishes the sentence. She looks around apprehensively. "Are the bad people here now?"

"No, we're fine. We just have to be careful that's all. Hey, what say we go to the Mall and grab lunch?"

"Can we have pizza? And ice cream?"

"Sure. And if mom asks later we tell her we had salads."

"Can we visit Banana Republic afterwards?"

"We don't have our passports with us," I point out.

"Huh?"

"Banana Republic's a clothes outlet, Cam, not a foreign country," John explains.

"Oh."

"Cameron's kinda goofy sometimes, isn't she," Mia giggles. "Are you sure she's not a stoner?"

"Quite sure."

TUESDAY

John is going up and down.

Up and down. In and out.

Up and down. In and out. Back and forth.

"You can join in, you know," he points out. "These crates aren't going to move themselves."

I help him take the crates from the spare bedroom upstairs and load them into the trunk of the Suburban. Many of the weapons we obtained from Paradise and Leroy are defective. Some are badly corroded while others so poorly maintained that firing them would be more dangerous to the shooter than the intended target.

John, his mother and I have sorted through the defective guns and placed them in a separate crates for disposal at a later date.

That later date is today.

Since Mia is too young to look stay home alone and would ask too many awkward questions if she were to accompany us, John stays behind to care for her. This means I get to spend the day with Sarah !

This is called being ironic.

We head north on the freeway. It is a warm day. Correction: it is a hot day. Temperature in the 90s. A high-pressure system has positioned itself over the city and shows no sign of moving any time soon. With no wind to shift it the smog layer sits over the land like a lid on a kettle. The smog is bad in downtown LA and even worse in the San Fernando valley, where CNN reports elderly people are being hospitilised with respitory problems caused by the heat and build up of carbon particulates in the atmosphere. What a chore it must be to have to breathe. In and out. Out and in. Every single day.

Lungs.

Who needs them?

We leave the freeway and enter the narrow winding roads of the canyons. Sarah Connor hasn't spoken a word since leaving the safe house. No attempt at small talk on this occasion. No listening to music on the radio. I consider telling her the joke John told me about the penguins visiting a bar. I think I understand the joke better now. The penguins were obviously part of a secret government research experiment and were on the run and seeking shelter. I decide not to tell the joke; Sarah Connor is not known for her sense of humour.

"I grew up around here," she states finally breaking her self-imposed silence. "Of course, back in the 80s it was a lot more bo-ho than it is now."

"Bo-ho?" I have not heard this expression before.

"Bohemian. Lots of artists and writers lived in the canyons. It was a very creative, liberal-minded community. Now it's mostly corporate types."

"And this is a bad thing?"

A shrug. "Takes all sorts. It's just a shame things have to change."

"And yet change is necessary in the scheme of things. Without change progress would be impossible and life would never have evolved beyond a single-cell ameoba."

A smirk. "Thank you, Charles Darwin."

My database provides the information. "Charles Darwin. 18th century English botanist," I recite." Author of _'On the Origin of the Species'_. You know I am not he therefore your addessing me as such is meant to be jocular."

"No pulling the wool over your eyes."

"No", I agree. "Unless I wore a hat woven from a sheep's fleece then it might indeed be possible to pull the wool over my eyes by tugging the brim down and obscuring my vision."

This provokes a smile. I let it pass. My donning a woollen hat is extremely unlikely. I am so not a hat person.

We round a sharp curve in the road. On either side is forest. We cannot be observed doing what we have come here to do. Sarah Connor brings the Suburban to a stop.

"Grab the crate and follow me. I know just the place to dump it."

**-0-**

The temperature drops rapidly under the leafy canopy of the forest trees. Even so it is not long before the rigours of our hike cause Sarah Connor's hair to go lank and her tanktop darken with perspiration. Sweat glands. As with lungs - who needs them?

"There's a ravine near here," she declares, stopping to wipe the sweat from her brow. I halt also, balancing the wooden crate on my right shoulder. "There used to be a tree that grew out over the edge with an old tire hanging from a branch. We used to hang out there. Kids with too much time on our hands."

"You mean like that one?" I ask pointing at a tree very similar to the one she has just described.

"My God, I think it's the same one!"

The tree is a sycamore with its roots clinging precariously to the edge of a deep ravine. One thick branch extends over the drop. Tied to this is a rope. Tied to the rope an old automobile tire.

"We used to take a run up here and leap out and catch the tire. We'd swing out and back again. Took some nerve when you're ten years old."

"If you had miscalculated and slipped the fall would most likely have killed you."

"That's where the buzz comes in."

"You risked your existence for a buzz?"

"What can I say? We were young and stupid."

She reaches out and grasps the rope, hauling the tire towards her. It appears as if she is about to repeat her childhood follies. "No," I state firmly, placing my hand on her chest to prevent her leaping.

"Get your hands off me."

"The rope is rotten. It will break. See."

I give the rope a tug. Its fibers part and the tire crashes into the ravine.

Sarah Connor stares after it. "Good call," she says.

This is the thanks I get for saving her life.

We take the guns from the crate and throw them into the ravine, where they disappear into the undergrowth. In the unlikely event someone discovers them they will be of no use. I have removed the firing pins.

Soon all the guns are disposed of. "Okay, let's head back."

"What about the crate?" I ask.

"Toss it over as well."

I do so. The wooden panels make a splintering sound as they encounter a hard object, a rock possibly, at the base of the ravine.

We emerge from the forest in a different place than which we entered, neccesitating a short walk back up the road. As we round the curve we find we are not alone. A policeman is standing beside the Suburban, peering inside. His black and white patrol car is parked nearby. "Let me do the talking," Sarah Connor whispers. "He's on his own so it's probably nothing."

The policeman senses our presence as we approach. He turns, hand going instinctively to the holster at his waist. It contains a Beretta 9mm. He doesn't draw the weapon merely keeping his hand nearby waiting to see what danger we pose.

"Is there something wrong, officer?" Sarah Connor asks.

"Is this your vehicle, ma'am?"

"That's right."

"This is a no-parking zone. There's a sign at the bottom of the hill."

"Oh. I'm sorry. I must've missed it. I used to live round here. I'm showing my daughter some of my old haunts. She's off to college in the Fall and this might be the last chance we get to spend some quality time together. They grow up so fast."

"That they do. Which college?"

I say Cal Tech at the same instant Sarah Connor says Berkeley. She attempts to recover from this discrepancy by smiling and saying, "She was accepted into several colleges. It's hard to keep track."

Some humans have a rudimentary lie detection facility. They call this intuition. This policeman appears to possess such a talent. His eyes narrow suspiciously. "Let's see some ID," he demands coldly. "License and registration."

Sarah Connor hands over her license then nods at the Suburban. "The registration's in the glovebox."

"Okay. Why don't you reach in and get it for me. Nice and easy now. Hands where I can see them and no sudden movements.

The policeman examines the documents. The registration is genuine while the license and IDs are the handiwork of the forger Andre Cordoba.

"Okay, Sarah - you said you live around here?"

"Used to. Not any more."

The policeman takes in the dust caked on the bottom of our pants legs. "Been hiking in the woods?"

"Briefly. It's too hot for hiking."

"Only there's been reports of firestarters in the area. You know anything about that?"

A shake of the head. "Like I said, this is my first visit in years."

"That a yes or a no?"

"Do we look like firestarters?"

"Oh they come in all shapes and sizes, believe me. Fifteen years on the force nothing surprises me any more. This place is so dry it's like a tinderbox. Only takes one spark and it could reach all the way to Topanga."

"I can well believe it."

"You're very quiet," he says to me. "What's the matter - cat got your tongue?"

"I don't have a cat." I inform him. "And I would hardly let such a creature have possession of my tongue."

"You sassing me, college girl?"

I make no reply. My database draws a blank for 'sassing'.

"I'm gonna run your plates and IDs," he says. "Something about you two doesn't quite add up."

As he turns to go back to his patrol car the radio crackles into life and begins to broadcast.

_"All units. Code 3. All available units code 3. Sunset and Vine. Repeat Sunset and Vine. Respond, over."_

"Code three," I state. "Police officer requires immediate assistance."

"How do you know that?"

"She watches a lot of cop shows on TV," Sarah Connor lies on my behalf.

"Well, TV got it right for once. It's your lucky day. I gotta respond toot sweet. If you two are here when I get back I'm hauling you both in for questioning."

The black-and-white races down the hill, siren blazing.

Sarah Connor lets out a sigh of relief. "That was a lucky break."

"Yes," I agree. "For him."

This earns me a sharp glance. "Killing a policeman doing his duty isn't the same as two lowlife's looking to kill us."

"You would prefer our documents be subject to close scrutiny?"

"If you'd kept your mouth shut like I told you we'd be fine."

"You were foolish to flout the parking regulations."

"I honestly didn't see the sign."

"Then you were careless. This isn't the first time. John believes the deaths of Paradise and Leroy were unnecessary, that you are on tilt."

"Tilt?"

"A poker expression meaning you are reacting to events in a reckless, ill-considered manner."

"I'm not on tilt. John really said that?"

"You believes the events in Mexico continue to influence your judgement adversely. I concur."

She mutters several obscene oaths, none of which are physically possible for me to comply with.

"I sometimes think I should just take you on Oprah, slice you open and let the world see for itself what's in store."

"Then why don't you?"

"Because live TV isn't really live. Even supposing I could get on the show there's a tape delay. The moment I cut you open the Network would cut the broadcast. I'd be slung in jail and you'd end up on some lab table in Area 51 while the military try to clone an army." She gestures brusquely at me. "Get in the car. No telling when that cop might decide to come back."

The ride home takes place in silence. No surprise there.

-0-

Once home I go up to the attic room and boot up John's laptop computer. A glance out the window reveals him and Mia playing in the pool, with Snowy floating on a rubber dinghy where he is safe from the harmful effects of the chlorine. I stifle an impulse to join them. There is work to do.

The spybot I installed in the LAPD mainframe is still functioning, although it has been lying dormant for several months. Today's run in with the police seems an opportune time to check up on things.

I input the badge number of the policeman who was so suspicious of us. His details appear on screen. Robert Vincento. Age 41. A policeman for fifteen years. He is married with two children. An address in Glendale. He came off duty one hour ago without filing a report or requesting our details from the police database. It seems his suspicions weren't solid enough to act on.

While I have the entire LAPD files at my disposal I check up on the investigation into the deaths of Paradise and Leroy. As expected their murders have been assigned a low priority. They were dangerous men involved in dangerous activities and therefore their deaths are not wholly unexpected. The case officier's report is brief. Cause of death is listed as blunt force trauma. Do they mean me? I have never been called that before.

_Blunt. Force. Trauma. _

It is not much of a nickname.

Next I check on the investigation into the murder of Lars Anderson, a journalist killed by a terminator who assumed his identity in a failed attempt to kill John. Sarah Connor left blood traces at the scene which were later matched to her DNA. She is clumsy that way.

NO FILES FOUND

Odd. The last time I checked the investigation has generated many megabytes of data. What has happened to the files? I input some keyboard commands in an attempt to track them down. As I do so I become aware that I have attracted attention to myself. Another spybot lurking in the LAPD mainframe has noticed my interest in these files and begins a pursuit, retracing my steps in an attempt to discover my IP address. It has already reached the Santa Monica node when I order my spybot to self-destruct. The screen goes blank. I stare at it for several moments. This is unprecidented.

_Someone has laid a trap for me and me alone._

_Someone knows I have hacked the LAPD mainframe_.

The hunter has become the hunted.

**-0-**


	48. Chapter fortyeight

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

TUESDAY (cont)

"Let's get this straight - you're saying someone laid a trap for you?"

"Yes. Someone learned I hacked the LAPD mainframe computer and knew which files I would attempt to access."

John, his mother and I are seated at the kitchen table. It is late evening. Mia is upstairs in bed asleep. Snowy lingers in the doorway staring up at us. He associates sitting at the table with the consumption of food and is hopeful of being tossed some tidbits. He is destined to be disappointed; no one is in the mood for eating. This is a council of war not a fast food franchise.

"How?" Sarah Connor demands. "You told us your spybot was undectectable."

"It is. Normally."

"Was it your kind?"

"No. The trap was too crude. I believe the enemy spybot was human in origin."

"Maybe our old friends at the NSA," John surmises with a grimace. "But how did they know what you did? Aren't we the only ones who knew about the hacking?"

I stay silent. This is not strictly true. There is one other person.

_Eleanor Ryan._

Mad Ellie must have blabbed.

Fortunately Sarah Connor ignores my silence and asks, "How close did they come to finding us?"

"If the information was transmitted in real time then they reached the Santa Monica node and no further. "

"So they'll know we're back in town. We might have to move again."

"Santa Monica's a big place, mom. I doubt they have the resources to go door to door. Mia's settled in school and is making friends. It'll be a huge upheavel to move again. And they'll be looking for three people not four. And a dog," he adds smiling at Snowy who has finally given up any lingering hope of being fed and slopes off to join Mia upstairs, tail drooping forlornly.

"We won't be much use to that girl if we're all in custody. Can they trace us again once the system's back online?"

"You don't understand," I explain. "When I self-destructed my spybot it destroyed the entire system. The LAPD computer database no longer exists as a functioning entity."

"Oh man," John shakes his head. "That's a huge breach of security. They're not gonna be able to cover that up. It'll leak out for sure.

**-0-**

WEDNESDAY

John's prediction proves correct. The hacking of the LAPD computer system and its subsequent destruction is the lead item on most news channels - except E!Online which leads with some actress being photographed _sans_ underwear. Priorities.

"Told you," John says as the drama unfolds. "I wonder who they'll blame?"

On CNN the Police Commisioner is shown arriving at City Hall to be instantly besieged by reporters yelling and demanding answers he is evidently ill-prepared to give.

_"Commisioner, does this mean prisoners in custody pending trial will have to be released because the evidence to convict them no longer exists?"_

_"That's blatant scaremongering. The public can rest assured that anyone deserving of jail will stay right where they are. Backup procedures are in place. The wheels of justice will continue to turn, albeit more slowly."_

_"Commisioner, doesn't that leave the City wide open to wrongful arrest suits?"_

_"This is an unprecidented event. I ask for everyone's forebearance in these trying times."_

_"Commisioner, was this a deliberate cyber attack on the justice system?"_

_"The FBI will conduct a full and far-reaching investigation. I can't make idle speculation at _this _juncture."_

_"Commisioner, is it true the President has summoned the Chinese attache to the White House?"_

_"No comment."_

_"Commisioner, is this a escalation of what some sources are calling organised cyber-bullying by rogue states hostile to our country?"_

_"That's all, gentlemen. You'll have more when we know more. Good day."_

The Police Commisioner heads inside City Hall and the scene switches back to the studio where myriad talking heads discuss what they know, which is very little, and what they think they know, which is a great deal. China appears the mosy likely culprit. China, the emerging superpower that is slowly and surely supplanting the incumbent, the United States. Envy and resentment stoke the rampant xenophobia. Both superpowers are unaware of a third, Skynet, which will ultimately crush them both.

"You've certainly put the cat among the pigeons", Sarah Connor comments wryly. She probably expects me to point out there are no cats present. Or pigeons. I remain silent. My database informs me this is an expression denoting chaos. Another would be a spanner in the works. A fox in the henhouse. The Pope in the woods. No, that last one means something else entirely. I delete it from the list.

"They know we're back in the city. And we've lost our first line of defence." John takes Cameron subprime's chip out and rolls it back and forth between his fingers. Lately he has begun carrying it around with him like a talisman. A version of my life is literally in his hands.

"I still think what's on this chip is important. Why elese would it be hidden? If we only knew someone we could trust who could help me break the encryption."

"I may know someone," I admit.

"You do? Who?"

"David Ginsberg."

"Ginsberg? The software billionaire?"

"He wasn't rich when I met him."

"When was that?"

"1969. At Woodstock."

"You were at _Woodstock? _The music festival?_" _The incredulity in Sarah Connor's voice is palpable. "Did you wear flowers in your hair?"

"Daisies. It was important to look the part. Humans put great stock in first impressions."

"Why Woodstock?" John asks.

"I required help constructing the spare time travel mechanism."

"How'd you know Ginsberg could help you?"

"Because you told me I would find him at Woodstock and he could help me."

"I did? But how do I..." John voices trails off. "I know because you told me. Right now. This is you telling me."

"It is the most likely explanation," I concede.

John taps some commands into his laptop. "According to Wikipedia, Professor David Ginsberg lives in Palm Springs, not some tax haven overseas. The bad news is he's a recluse; he sees nobody and no one sees him."

"I think he will see me."

"It's been 42 years, he might not even remember you."

"I think he will."

"How so?"

"I am hard to forget."

FRIDAY

"Wow. That dress is...wow." John grins broadly, examining at my new dress from top to bottom. This doesn't take very long since the hemline barely covers my hips.

"It is the type of dress I wore in 1969," I explain. "I thought it appropriate."

"It's many things but appropriate isn't one of them."

We are standing on the sidewalk outside the safe house. Parked at the kerb is a rented Mercedes sedan, ours for the journey to Palm Springs since the Suburban is required for the school run. It is just after sunrise. The intention is to make an early start.

Mia and Sarah Connor emerge from the house to see us off. Mia smiles gleefully at my attire.

"Look at Cameron's dress! You can almost see her noo-noo!" She giggles. "I said noo-noo!" She sniggers as is her wont when anything vaguely rude is uttered.

"No flowers in your hair?" Sarah Connor smirks.

"None. However, I could always pick some daisies if-"

"Joke."

"Oh. I see. You are mocking my garb because you feel it is anachronistic."

"What's anachronistic mean?" Mia asks.

"From another era," John explains. "Girls used to wear miniskirts like this back in the 60s."

"I wanna a miniskirt!"

Sarah Connor rolls her eyes. "Here we go..."

"I wanna a miniskirt so short it nearly shows my noo-noo!" More giggles. "I said-"

"We heard you."

"My friend Megan says if a boy sees your noo-"

"Yes, I think we've heard quite enough words of wisdom from your friend Megan."

"Megan's totally phat," Mia insists.

"That means she's cool not overweight," I explain for Sarah Connor's benefit. She ignores me.

"At school Megan was voted the girl most likely to get knocked up. What's that mean?"

"It means you should think about finding some new friends."

"What were you voted most likely?" John asks.

"Most likely to be a model. Though Emma Van Buren said I'm most likely to be a housemaid, then she and her snooty friends all laughed. Was she being mean? Is it because I'm latino? Should I pound her?"

"Yes. Yes. And no. She's a stupid girl. You don't need to get into trouble because of her."

"Anyway, I don't wanna be a model."

"Pleased to hear it," Sarah Connor says approvingly.

"I wanna be a gunrunner like Papa!"

"Oh dear Lord..."

"We'd better get going," John announces. He gets into the Mercedes. I join him. "Where's Snowy? Isn't he gonna see us off?"

"He's in the backyard," Mia explains. "He's having a staring contest with the cat next door."

"Mr Tibbles?" I ask.

"Yeah. Snowy says Mr Tibbles keeps cheating though."

"How does a cat cheat..? Wait. I don't want to know." Sarah Connor shakes her head ruefully. "Talking dogs and cheating cats. Please hurry back. Let's go inside, Mia."

"Why can't I go to Palm Springs?"

"Because it's a school day."

"Will you bring me back a present?"

"Sure thing, munchkin," John assures her.

"And Snowy? He doesn't like to be left out."

"Sure, Snowy too. Be good. And if you can't be good-."

"-don't get caught!" Mia finishes for him, laughing.

-0-

PALM SPRINGS (The Present

Palm Springs is located 110 miles from LA, a straightforward three hour journey on Interstate 10.

"Never been to Palm Springs before," John confides as he steers the Mercedes towards the off-ramp.

"I have."

"Yeah? How come?"

"Obeying your orders."

"Ah. The future..."

"The future," I confirm. "Palm Springs is a resistance stronghold, straddling the supply lines south and east. Many lives will be lost in its defence."

John doesn't reply. His hands grip the steering wheel more tightly and his lips compress to a thin line. He hates to be reminded of his future self: Judgement Day might be inevitable and he will have no option but to assume the mantle destiny has chosen for him - mankind's last and best hope.

This is a place of extreme heat and dryness, yet human skill and ingenuity have tamed the harsh landscape and transformed it into...golf courses. They line the freeway as far as the eye can see, and my eye can see a very long way. It seems an odd use of technology to cater to a pastime whereby a small rubber ball is struck by metal sticks into arbitrarily dug holes in the ground. Humans adept at this are rewarded with fame and great wealth, revered by the general populace above doctors, teachers, soldiers and scientists, who would seem more worthy of such largesse. Even John struggles to explain this to me, let alone justify it. Humans are just too weird sometimes.

Something about the topography of the landscape, specifically one of the golf courses and the trio of sandtraps that guard one of the holes, triggers my memory retrieval software. I extract the kernal and the memory begins to playback in my sensorium.

PALM SPRINGS (The Future)

I am in the central sandtrap. The sand is long gone, as are the lush green fairways and carefully mown greens. The desert has returned to Palm Springs with a vengeance. The traps have been excavated so they are now many meters deep. They are caverns replete with a bofors gun anchored to the ground and pointing skywards. Tunnels connect the caverns to each other with room for living quarters and a well-stocked arsenal.

_"Stretch it taut, dammit! Anything loose will flap around. The recon birds can detect the slightest movement."_

I am working on the control panel of one of the bofors guns. The voice comes from above me, where resistance fighters struggle to erect camuaflauge netting in the fierce desert heat.

One of the men jumps down into the cavern, landing surprisingly lightly on his feet for such a big man. I recognise him as the platoon leader. Data on him scrolls down my HUD.

MIKEL OLSEN

AGE 28

RANK: MAJOR

PROMOTED IN THE FIELD DURING THE FIRST BATTLE OF SERRANO POINT

DECORATED FOR BRAVERY UNDERFIRE DURING THE SIEGE OF VAN NUYS

I know that John thinks highly of this man and has entrusted him with the Palm Springs command. This is a tough assignment. Conditions are harsh and the prospect of being bombed by the HunterKillers is everpresent.

Olsen is bare-chested, his upper torso bronzed by the sun and daubed with ink. Tattoos. I have overheard the female soldiers at HQ speculate that the more tattoos a man has the smaller his tool. This man has many tattoos yet the size of his tool is not in doubt. He holds it in his hand. A twelve-inch spanner.

"Man, that heat is something fierce!" he exclaims. "Don't think I'll ever get used to it. Summer's were never like this back in Maine."

"Actually, it's Fall," I point out. "The date is October nine."

"Yeah? Hard to keep track of the days. And there aren't any trees to speak of."

I decide against mentioning the equinoxes, the lowering arc of the sun through the sky, the changing starscape at night. For humans the passing of time equates to the ticking of a clock and the turn of a calendar page.

"What are you doing exactly?"

"Upgrading the targeting software," I explain. "Human reactions are insufficient to bring down an HunterKiller in attack mode."

"Takes a machine to kill a machine, huh?"

"Affirmative."

Another man emerges from the connecting tunnels. "Hey, Major, heads up. Word is HQ are sending us a tame tincan to teach us how to fight." He notices me and his voice changes, becoming more husky. "Well, hey now, lookee here. Who's this little cutiepie?"

"The tame tincan," I reply without looking round.

"Oh. Speak of the devil. No offence," he adds hastily.

"None taken."

Other men join us. Someone whistles. At me? Presumably. There is a whispered conversation. My presence is being explained. Why I'm here. Who I am.

_What I am..._

"Back in Kansas one of your kind infiltrated our tunnels. Killed thirty of us before we took it down."

"It's what we are designed to do." Again I don't bother looking round.

"You based on an actual person?"

"Yes."

"What happened to her?"

"She died."

Someone spits on the ground close to my boots. Deliberately close. I elect to ignore it.

I input instructions and the bofors cannon swivels round. Several of the men gasp in surprise.

"Please remain calm, " I announce. "I am merely running a simulation."

The barrels track a non-existent HunterKiller across the sky. I make further minor adjustments then end the program and reseal the control panel.

"My work here is done. I will return to HQ. The General has duties for me to perform."

_"I bet he does!"_

A whispered aside that provokes laughter. Finally I turn around and face the men. They fall silent. Should I administer discipline? Technically I outrank the Major since I am subordinate only to John.

The Major seems to sense the threat and places himself between me and his men. "Tell the General we'll hold the line. His southern flank is secure. We won't let anyone down."

He thrusts out his hand. The handshake ritual, used for farewells as well as greeting. John is an expert on these occasions: a firm grip, a shoulder clasp, a smile, encouraging words for the battles ahead. I attempt likewise.

"Fight bravely and die if necessary."

The Major grimaces. Several men groan. I have not found the right words. I do not have the knack.

Without further ado I climb the rough steps carved in the cavern walls and emerge into daylight. The sun is low in the west and behind causing my shadow to precede me.

I don't look back.

**-0-**

PALM SPRINGS (Present)

The memory playback ends. Present reality reasserts itself, supplanting the Past. Or the Future, depending on your POV.

The trio of sandtraps recede in the distance, offering no more danger than a dropped golf shot. A pair of brightly clad golfers stand in the middle of the fairway, smiling and high-fiving each other, a typically tactile human response to some small triumph. It reminds me of my botched handshake. In this timeframe the Major and his cohorts are mere children. Machines and computers are their servants and playthings. They will come to know differently.

_In time... _

**-0-**

The Ginsberg estate occupies several acres in the richest, most exclusive part of town. the streets here are wide - boulevards named after famous people I have never heard of - and lined with mature trees offering shade for the non-existent pedestrians. Anyone found loitering in this enviroment would be easy prey for the regular security patrols. The wealthy take their well-being very seriously indeed.

A sports convertible passes us, driven by a brunette chatting on a cell. John's head swivels as she goes past.

"I think that was Julia Roberts!"

"D'you know her?"

"Hardly. She's a movie star."

Good. She seemed attractive. Too attractive for my liking. With too many teeth. If Skynet had given me that many teeth I would barely be able to close my mouth.

We pull up at the entrance gates to the Ginsberg property. John rolls down the window, wincing as the furnace-like desert heat invades the Mercedes airconditioned cocoon. He depresses the intercom button set into a stone pillar. Above, a CCTV camera records our every move to unseen eyes in a building glimpsed in the distance through a shield of poplar trees.

"Hi, my name's John. I'd like to speak to Professor Ginsberg, if I may."

The reply comes immediately and isn't encouraging:

_"The Professor isn't receiving visitors. Please leave at once."_

John persists. "I have an old friend of his with me, if I could just-"

_"No exceptions. Leave immediately or the police will be notified."_

I lean over and depress the button. "Please inform Davie that Cameron Phillips is here and would like to know if_ 'Foxy Lady' _is still his favourite song."

No answer. Is this good or bad? It is hard to tell.

"_Foxy Lady'_?" John asks.

"By Jimi Hendrix. It was his favourite song. He called it our song since it was playing when we met and many subsequent occasions."

"You called him Davie."

"He liked me to."

"So you must've gotten pretty close?"

"We shared a house for six weeks."

John's hands flex on the steering wheel. He seems oddly discomfited.

"So you must have...?"

"Often. It was a means to encourage him when his energy levels flagged."

More flexing, his knuckles show white through the skin. "Is something wrong?" I inquire.

."You did what you had to do. And I wasn't even born then. It's just...I hate the thought of you having sex with someone else."

"You misunderstand. I merely danced for him."

"Danced?"

"To_ 'Foxy Lady'."_

"So there was no sex?"

"He tried once. He encountered difficulties."

"What difficulties?"

"I knocked him unconscious."

Suddenly the massive wrought iron gates begin to swing open. The driveway leading to the house lies before us.

"Guess he remembers you after all."

"I told you, I am hard to forget."

**-0-**

**Three years ago to the week I posted the first chapter of this, thinking it would be a mildly entertaining one-off. Forty-nine chapters later...**

**Next: Billionaires, Woodstock and Jar-Jar Binks.**


	49. Chapter fortynine

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

FRIDAY(CONT.)

We are met at the entrance to the house by a tall man dressed in a business suit. My facial recognition doesn't ping. He isn't Davie. He introduces himself as Desmond, head of security.

"The boss has agreed to meet you folks. Still gotta search you though. Raise your arms."

We oblige. This causes my already short skirt to ride up even further. It is fortunate I remembered underwear or else my noo-noo would be on view-view. This is a joke. It is funny because I have taken the hyphenation of the first word and applied it to the second, making them phonetically similar. It appears the joke is less funny if you try and explain it.

The search is brief but thorough. He finds no weapons. Or rather he does he just doesn't realize it.

"Okay, come with me."

We follow Desmond into the house.

"You're the first people he's seen in months. Even his ex-wives can't get inside anymore."

"How come?" John asks.

"You'll figure it out when you meet him,' Desmond replies enigmatically. He shows us into a large, well-appointed sitting room. "Wait here. Don't know how long he'll be; he's kinda unpredictable lately. If you want anything to eat or drink ring the bell. Don't go wandering off."

Desmond leaves us. I take up station in a corner where I am able to observe both entrances. I am not expecting trouble. Then again trouble won't be expecting me.

John is too full of nervous energy to sit still. He tours the room, looking at the paintings on the wall, the photographs of Davie gladhanding the rich and powerful, including the last five Presidents. For a man who was once a hippy bum he has done exceedingly well for himself.

On a side table are three photos in gilt frames. John examines them. He frowns. "Look at this. Notice anything odd about them?"

The pictures show Davie at various stages of his life. By his side is a woman, a different one in each shot. I see nothing amiss.

"These are his wives. And they all look like you. Petite brunettes."

"Petite?"

"Slender. Brown eyes. Long brown hair parted in the middle. Minimum makeup. You suppose another reason I sent you back is because you're his type?"

I am about to ask what type I am when a whirring noise comes from the open doorway. A motorised wheelchair enters the room. Seated in it is an old man with a pure white beard. The hair on his head has receded but the eyes are still green and radiate the intelligence that once caused me to seek this man out all those decades ago.

"Cameron? Is that really you?"

The voice too is a match, though wheezy with age. And possibly... something more?

"Hello, Davie," I greet him. "Long time no see."

"No, it can't be you. It's been over forty years and you look exactly the same as you did then. This is some kind of trick."

"It's no trick."

"Prove it. What were the first words you said to me in 1969?"

I consult my database, extracting the information held in the appropriate memory kernal.

_"Hello. Can you help me put up my tent? Tents are very hard to get right."_

"My God, it is you! But how...it has something to do with that contraption we built, doesn't it? I always suspected it was a time machine."

"I know you did."

Davie glances over at John. "And who are you?"

"My name's John, sir. It's an honour to meet you."

Davie's brow furrows. "John, you say? Not_ the _John? Cameron mentioned a John from time to time. When I asked who you were she said you were the greatest man who ever lived."

John smiles sheepishly. "Cameron's prone to exaggeration."

"Somehow I always pictured you as a much older man."

"He will be," I assure him. "One day."

Davie turns back to me. "Why have you-"

He begins to cough. His face grows red and he struggles for breath. John steps forward and says, "Sir, are you alright? Should I call someone?"

Davie holds up a hand. "Wait..." He jabs a button on the arm of the wheelchair. A woman in a starched white nurse's uniform enters as if on cue. She places a plastic mask over Davie's nose and mouth. The mask is connected to an oxygen cylinder.

Davie's breathing returns to normal. The coughing ceases. "That's all. Get out!"

The nurse leaves, seemingly unperturbed at being so brusquely dismissed.

"Are you sure you're okay, sir?" John asks.

"Oh far from it, son. Cancer. Third stage melanoma. All that California sunshine. Luckily I'm responding well to treatment. However, as you can see it's taken a heavy toll."

"Is that why you don't have vistors?"

"I'm CEO of one of the biggest software companies in the world - no matter what that SOB Gates says. If I'm seen as anything less than one hundred percent fit the shareholders get restless. Just ask Steve Jobs." Davie removes the oxygen mask from his face. "Come with me. Both of you. I want to show you something."

We follow the motorised wheelchair through the corridors of the vast house. The wheels make deep indentations in the thick carpeting but very little sound. The security chief Desmond appears in an open doorway. "Is everything okay, sir?"

"Fine, Desmond. Hold all calls. I'm not to be disturbed."

"Nurse Carmela told me you had another episode."

"Did she, indeed? Tell the little tattletale she's fired."

"Sir, you can hardly fire the staff for doing their job. The medical advice is to get as much rest as possible."

"I'll rest aplenty when I'm dead."

We leave Desmond behind. "Good man," Davie confides. "Ex-navy seal. Must get very bored guarding this old bag of bones. Ah, here we are."

We enter a large room with banked seating at one end facing a blank screen at the other. It resembles a small cinema.

"Home theater," Davie explains. "State of the art. George hooked me up."

"George?"

"George Lucas."

"_Star Wars _George Lucas?"

"That's right. We go way back. Many of the programming techniques I learnt from Cameron are used in the modern special effects industry. In fact, without her many movies would never have been made in the first place."

"You know what this means?" John says staring at me. "You're responsible for Jar-Jar Binks!"

_Oops. My bad._

Davie presses some buttons on a console and the vast screen flickers into life. A film begins playback. It is grainy, black and white footage without a soundtrack. Very lo-tech for such surroundings.

"Oh wow..." John sighs.

On the screen is a young girl in a plain dress that barely reaches her hips. She is barefoot and has flowers in her hair. Her eyes are closed as she dances to unheard music.

_The girl is me._

Occasionally a man intrudes in the shot. He is barechested with long dark hair and a full beard. He is tapping a tambourine.

"The hairy oaf is me," Davie admits, watching his younger self. "I was 30 years old at Woodstock. I'd quit my teaching post at MIT three years previous. I'd embraced the counterculture in a big way. Pot, mescaline, LSD...you name it I took it. I told myself I was expanding my consciousness. We all did. It was the way things were back then."

On the screen I watch myself pirouette. Hard to do with any grace when your toes are buried in mud. Yasgur's Farm was not conducive to good ballet.

"Then Cameron entered my life. She told me she needed my help, had rented a house for us to live in while we worked on a project she said might interest me. I mean, what kind of man would I be to turn down an offer like that from such a pretty girl? Especially one that danced like an angel."

"I understand, sir. Believe me. I've been there."

"Turned out the project was something quite extraordinary. It stretched me intellectually the way nothing ever had before. Or since."

The film ends then begins to repeat. It must be on a loop.

"Six weeks later I woke to find the house empty. The contraption we were working on was gone. As were all the notes I'd written. There was no chance I could duplicate it without them. We didn't have backup drives in those days."

A single tear leaks from Davie's right eye and runs down his wizened cheek. He still stares up at the screen, seemingly mesmerised by our younger selves.

"Once I had my software company up and running I hired a team of private investigators to try and track her down. They searched every state looking for a Cameron Phillips who matched her description. Nothing. Not a trace. Until thirteen years ago a Cameron Phillips finally turned up - at a New Mexico high school of all places. I'd pretty much given up hope by then. By the time my PI arrived a teacher lost his mind and began shooting the students. Going postal, I believe it's called. One of the students gunned down was Cameron Phillips. A dozen witnesses testified to the fact. Yet no body was ever found."

Davie finally turns from the screen to face me.

"It was you, wasn't it?"

"Yes."

"Obviously you weren't shot and killed."

"I'm tougher than I look."

"And I bet you looked exactly the same then as you do now."

"My hair was an inch shorter."

Davie nods then begins to cry, great wracking sobs that shake his frail body. "How many times did I say I loved you?" he demands.

The answer appears in my HUD. "Forty-eight. Seventy-three if you include I adore you, which is not the same thing at all."

"You're some kind of savant, aren't you? It explains your intelligence, the efficiancy, the indifferent way you treated me. Of course, we didn't have the term in those days. Yet knowing it now doesn't make the pain any easier to bear."

Davie wipes away his tears with the back of his sleeve. His voice takes on gruff tone. "I must have sat in this room alone and watched this film a thousand times. Why have you come back now? When I'm old?"

It's John who answers for me. "We need your help, sir."

"Ah. That's it, is it? I should've suspected. You want money. Of course. I'll write you a cheque."

"Not money, sir. We need your expertise." He takes the chip from his jacket pocket. "I'd like you to take a look at this."

**-0-**

"This is incredible. Where did you get this?"

"I'm afraid I can't tell you that, sir."

We are in another part of the building. A fully equipped laboratory. Everything is state of the art. Computers and electron microscopes such as the one Davie is using to examine Cameron subprime's chip.

"The architecture is extraordinary. I've never seen anything like it. It must have several million terabytes of data storage arranged in ways I never imagined possible. I'll give you a million dollars for it."

"It's not for sale."

"Ten million."

"Sorry. No can do."

"Son, a teenage boy can have quite a few adventures with ten million dollars."

"I have all the adventures I can handle, sir, thanks all the same."

"But this could revolutionise the industry! It'd certainly knock that bastard Gates off his perch. Windows 8, my ass! Twenty million."

"Professor, if you don't want to help us then hand the chip back and we'll leave."

Davie reluctantly acquiesces to John's bluff. "Very well. Encrypted files, you say?"

"That's right. D'you have any idea how to crack them?"

"Won't know until I try."

**-0-**

And try Davie does. He works on the chip for several hours straight, no mean feat for someone of his age. Occasionally he asks a question of John or myself. Mostly he is utterly absorbed by the task in hand.

At the four hour mark Davie suffers another coughing fit. Nurse Carmela is summoned. The oxygen mask goes on once more accompanied by a hypodermic injection. A stimulent of some sort. All the while Desmond watches from the doorway, mouth pursed disapprovingly. Davie ignores all entreaties to rest. He is in the Zone. I remember it well. Age might have claimed his body but his mind is as strong and agile as ever.

At midnight Davie finally slumps back in his wheelchair. "I have it," he announces in a tired yet triumphant voice.

"You opened the files?"

"Not files, son. It's a single video file. Quite short yet devilishly hard to decipher. Whoever did this knew their way around a computer. And then some."

"Thank you, sir."

"Just plug and play." Davie laughs. "Christ, I'm starting to sound like Gates in my old age! Come, you can play it back in the theater."

_"Stay right where you are."_

The three of us turn round. Desmond is standing in the doorway. He is holding a gun.

"Desmond? What's the meaning of this?"

"I took some video stills from the security footage and sent them to a contact in the police department. The boy is John Baum. That's his sister Cameron Baum. Along with their mother they're wanted for murder and other crimes stretching back years."

"There must be some mistake. This girl is Cameron Phillips. I've known her for-well, a very long time."

"No mistake, sir. The police are on their way. And the FBI. These two are staying right here until they arrive.

**-0-**

**Don't feel too much sympathy for Davie. He's about to make John very angry indeed...**


	50. Chapter fifty

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SATURDAY

"How long ago did you call the police?" John demands.

"Twenty minutes. Don't worry, boy. They'll be here soon enough. Sit down. Take a load off."

Desmond sounds complacent. He thinks he has the situation under control. He is an ex-navy seal after all. An ex-navy seal holding a gun. What possible threat can two teenagers pose to such as he?

He is about to find out.

John pockets the chip off the desk and says, "We don't have much time. Disarm him."

"Now wait a second..."

Three paces and I am within range. Desmond is slow bringing the gun to bear. I slap it out of his hand and it clatters away harmlessly.

_"Bitch!"_

He grabs me in a headlock and twists. Were I human my head would be facing in the opposite direction. Not a good look on me. Just imagine finding clothes to fit.

_"What the hell..."_

I shove him away. Hard. He hits the wall, rebounds, slumps to the floor and lies still.

John says, "Sir, we have to go. Can you open the gates from here?"

"Hold your horses, son." Davie turns his wheelchair so he is facing me. "Do you vouch for this boy?"

"I stand by what I told you forty-two years ago. He is the greatest man who ever lived."

"Very well. Use the rear entrance. I'll stall the police. Oh and you might need this." Davie hands John a slim piece of white plastic. "It's an ivory Amex card. Very exclusive. Only a few hundred in the world have one. It'll buy whatever you need."

"Sir, I told you, we didn't come for money."

"I understand, son. But something tells me you're going to need all the help you can get."

We head towards the door.

_"Cameron..."_

I turn. Davie has an odd yearning look on his face like the one he wore when I danced for him all those decades ago.. "Did you love me just the tiniest bit all those years ago?"

No reply suggests itself in my HUD. I stand there staring at him. _"Say yes," _John whispers.

"Yes!" I blurt out. Then we are gone, racing through the corridors to emerge in the paved courtyard. From the front gate comes the sound of police sirens. Good. It is always better to know where the police are rather than have them sneak up on you unawares. A lesson they should have learned by now.

We hurtle through the Ginsberg estate, our path illuminated by the Mercedes headlamps. It is dark now and the streets beyond are unfamiliar. John jabs at the SatNav. "Shit! I think I broke it. D'you know where we are? We need the Interstate ASAP."

A schematic of the Palm Springs road grid appears in my HUD. "Take a left," I advise. "Now the second right. Left. Straightahead."

The Mercedes climbs the on-ramp and merges with the traffic flow.

"You have reached your destination," I intone.

John glances across. "Is that meant to be funny?"

"I don't know. Is it?"

"You sounded like the SatNav."

_How insulting!_

"Anyone following?"

"No."

John relaxes slightly as we head towards Los Angeles. "I doubt Desmond bothered to tell the police the vehicle we 're driving. He thought he had us neatly bottled up."

"He was mistaken."

"Did you check if he was okay?"

"No. Is it important?"

"Of course it's important! Have you learnt nothing?" he snaps in sudden anger. "He was just doing his job, protecting his employer. Look at it from his perspective. Two punk kids show up out of nowhere, blag their way inside and work his boss into a frenzy. Of course he's gonna check us out. I should have known. Man, I do not need any more dead people on my conscience."

We arrive in Santa Monica just as the sun is rising in the east. We have been away almost a full day.

"Shit, we forgot something!"

"The chip?"

"No, it's in my pocket. I promised Mia I'd bring her back a present. And Snowy. I'll just tell mom what happened then go buy them something."

Impulsively, I lean over and kiss him."

"What's that for?" he grins.

"It is typical of you to think of others before yourself. It is one of your finest attributes."

"Attributes, huh? I like the sound of that."

**-0-**

Sarah Connor listens in silence as John retells the events of the trip, only asking questions at the very end. "Why did he give you an Amex card?"

"I think he genuinely wanted to help. Plus I think he loved Cameron once. Maybe still does."

Sarah Connor stares at me. "For a ruthless killer you seem to attract more than your fair share of men."

"You've either got it or you haven't," I reply, meeting her gaze. She looks away first, muttering under her breath. I catch the words 'tin' and 'hussy'.

"Apparently these cards don't have credit limits," John says taking the card out to examine. "I could buy a space shuttle with one of these."

"Do you want to buy a space shuttle?" I ask.

"Not particularly."

This is good news. Mia would probably want to use it for the school run. A space shuttle would be the very devil to park.

"Have you seen what's on the chip?"

"No. And it can wait. I have to go out again. I won't be long."

To my surprise John doesn't want me to accompany him. "You'll see why later," he explains cryptically.

**-0-**

He returns two hours later and laden with gifts. For Mia he has purchased a large doll's house almost as tall as she is. It is a scale replica of an old English country house and comes complete with furniture and fixtures. Mia is delighted and immediately starts playing with it, rearranging the furniture and pretending an imaginary family live there. Snowy also likes the house since the rooms are just large enough for him to squeeze in and take a nap. It is fortunate the imaginary family aren't real or they would find themselves sharing their home with a giant slumbering dog. This might adversely affect property values.

For Snowy John buys a treadmilll of the type found in gyms. This will allow him to run when no-one is available to take him for walkies. Snowy is delighted with his gift, until Mia sets the speed too high and he shoots off the end like a small furry projectile. He is not so keen after that.

For her gift John loads his mother's bank account with cash from the Amex card. This will help alleviate the stress she feels every time a large bill arrives.

And then it's my turn.

"You bought a present for me?"

"Of course. I'm hardly going to leave you out when I bought the dog something. Close your eyes."

I do so. I hear a dull thunk as an object is placed on the kitchen table.

"Open them."

On the table is a can of WD40.

"Like it?"

"Love it," I lie.

John laughs. "I'm joking. I'm not giving you a can of oil."

"Good. I am self-lubricating."

"Don't I know it! Close your eyes again."

I do so. There is a softer thunk.

"Open them."

On the table is a hinged leather box.

"Open it."

Inside is a diamond bracelet.

"Put it on."

I do so. "It's beautiful."

"No, you're beautiful."

We kiss, softly at first then with more passion. John's hands probe under my dress. It appears we are about to get jiggy with it.

The door opens unexpectedly and Mia walks in.

"Oh. Sorry. I'll come back later." She closes the door and runs through the house. We hear her yelling,_ "SNOWY! SNOWY! I SAW JOHN AND CAMERON KISSING! AND HE WAS TOUCHING HER BOOBIES! HAHAHA! ISAID BOOBIES!"_

"So much for the romantic interlude," John grins ruefully.

"There will be others," I assure him.

"That a promise?"

"Count on it."

**-0-**

With Mia preoccupied by the doll's house, John summons Sarah Connor and I to the kitchen so we can review what is on the chip.

"Ginsberg said it's a single video file."

"A video file?"

"Yeah. Here we go."

He takes the chip from his jacket pocket and frowns. "That's odd. This isn't the chip."

"Let me see."

I examine the chip. "This isn't Cameron subprime's," I declare.

"But that's impossible. I saw Ginsberg unhook it from the computer and put it on the desk. Then Desmond came in and ...oh shit. He palmed it. That crafty old sonofabitch palmed it! That's why he gave me the Amex card. He was buying me off!"

Predictably Sarah Connor is furious. "How could you let an old man steal the chip? Why didn't you check?"

"Ah - becuase the police and FBI were about to kick in the door. I screwed up. I know. I'm sorry."

"We have to get that chip back."

"Yeah. Only this time I doubt he'll let us in quite as readily."

"Then we break in and steal it back."

"Technically it isn't stealing," I point out. "Since the chip belongs to us."

"I'm coming with you this time."

"What about Mia?"

"She's been pestering me to sleepover at this girl Megan's house. That'll give us at least thirty-six hours."

"I thought you disapproved of their friendship?"

"What choice do we have? She can't stay here alone and we can hardly take her with us."

-0-

Mia is overjoyed at the prospect of a sleepover.

"For reals?"

"For reals," Sarah Connor confirms.

"Can Snowy come with?"

"Sure. But you leave behind the gadget that tells you what he barks. And Ricardo the robot," John adds.

"That's not fair!"

"Dealbreaker."

"Okay, okay. Hear that, Snowy, you'll be able to play with Megan's sister's bald beaver!"

"Uh -_ what?"_

"Megan says her older sister has a bald beaver. Snowy loves to play with other pets."

"It's not an actual...it's a...uh..." John's explanation stutters to a halt. His face reddens.

"Hey - why doesn't Cameron get a bald beaver?"

"Why woud I want such a thing?" I ask.

"To replace Snowy."

"I am not interested in beavers, bald or otherwise."

"Fine. Suit yourself. C'mon, Snowy, let's go pack."

The moment Mia is out of the room John bursts out laughing.

"Don't encourage her," his mother chides. Yet she too is smiling.

"I don't understand," I announce. "what is funny about a furless aquatic mammal?"

This merely provokes further laughter.

Humans. I will never entirely comprehend how their minds work.

**-0-**

Sarah Connor drives Mia and Snowy across town to Megan's house. She returns just after six.

"How'd it go?" John asks.

"She couldn't wait to be rid of me."

"Oh I'm sure that's not true. Did you meet Megan's folks?"

"Uh huh. Her father's a cosmetic surgeon. I was barely inside the door before he offered me a thirty percent discount on my eyes."

"He wanted to buy your eyes?" I am surprised. I know humans swap internal organs such as hearts and livers. I didn't realise eyes were included.

"Not my eyes. The lines around them."

"Oh. You should definitely get those removed. It's very unattractive."

This earns me a scowl.

"What's their house like?" John inquires.

"About three times the size of ours."

"So we're not handing her over to the Manson family?"

"They seemed normal enough."

"Did you see the bald beaver?" I enquire.

John bursts out laughing again.

"Probably upstairs," Sarah Connor smirks.

I think there is something they are not telling me.

**-0-**

PALM SPRINGS

We arrive in Palm Springs with just an hour of daylight remaining and head towards high ground where we can observe the Ginsberg estate.

"Don't see any extra security." John peers through a pair of binoculars. I use the zoom function on my optical sensors.

"Could be inside. We have to expect the worst," Sarah Connor warns.

"Front gate's out. Rear as well. Too many cameras. How about the north east? The wall is hidden from the house by the trees. Could you punch through the brickwork?" he asks me.

"Easily."

"Good. We go in. Grab the chip. Get out."

"I just hope it's that straightforward."

John and his mother don bulletproof vests while I set to work on the wall. The bricks yield to my fists and a hole large enough for us to step through soon appears.

"Pin this to your jacket. Just in case we get separated"

John hands me a walkie-talkie. I attach it to my jacket lapel as instructed. We now all have one.

"Uzi or Glock nine mill?"

"Uzi."

"No shooting to kill."

We climb through the hole in the wall and head towards the house using the stand of trees to conceal us. This places us twenty feet from the nearest door. It's unguarded but has a small box on the wall with a red light showing and digits numbered 1 to 9. A code is required to get inside without raising the alarm.

"What now?"

"We go-wait. Someone's coming."

The light on the box changes from red to green. The door slides open. Have we been discovered already?

A latino woman steps outside dressed in a starched white uniform. Nurse Carmela. She takes a small package from her purse and extracts an even smaller white cylinder which she proceeds to set on fire. Nurse Carmela has come outside to smoke a cigarette.

John taps me on the shoulder and uses sign language to indicate what he about to do. I nod my understanding. We so get each other.

Sneaking up behind her unseen he places his hand over Nurse Carmela's mouth and drags her into the trees. I secure her wrists and ankles with duct tape.

"We're not gonna hurt you. Just tell us the entry code."

A violent shaking of the head.

"Look, you remember me, right? I was here yesterday. I just want to talk to your boss, Senor Ginsberg."

"I tell you nothing!_ Pig!"_

"We don't have time for this." Sarah Connor steps forward and twists Nurse Carmela's arm almost to the point of dislocation. "The code. Now. Or lose the arm."

_"9745! No mas! No mas!"_

"You better not be lying."

Another strip of duct tape goes over her mouth then we roll Nurse Carmela under the trees where she will not be easily found.

"Okay. Here we go. 9-7-4-5."

The red light turns green. The door slides open.

We find the home theater where Davie obsessively watches me dance and from there we retrace our steps to the laboratory, the most likely place for the chip to reside. John pushes the door open to create the smallest of gaps to peer through.

"He's in there. Alone. Mom, stay here and watch our backs. Cam, with me."

Davie is hunched over a computer display, the chip in plain sight. Beside him is a notepad covered in his familiar spidery handwriting. Davie always did like making notes.

"Hello, Professor. Remember us - the ones you double-crossed?"

"John! Cameron! I...never expected to see you again."

"We're like bad pennies. Always turning up. The chip, please."

"We had a deal. The card for the chip."

"You convinced yourself we had a deal. I told you it wasn't for sell."

"Son, be reasonable. This could alter the future of computers forever."

"You have no idea how true that is. Hand it over."

Davie clutches the chip to his chest. The wheelchair reverses until it hits the back wall.

"There's nowhere for you to go. Please. We don't want to harm you."

The walkie-talkies crackle into life. _"John. Trouble. Eight guards. All armed."_

"Time's up."

Davie then does something that surprises us both.

He swallows the chip.

"Shit! Hold his mouth open."

I do so. John sticks his fingers down Davie's throat. Retching. Gagging. No chip.

From outside, gunfire.

"I could cut his belly open," I offer.

"We take him with us. Go help mom. I'll deal with him."

Outside Sarah Connor is outnumbered eight to one. "Where's John? she asks.

"On his way."

I spray the corridor with shorts bursts from the Uzi, taking fire in return. Bullets lacerate my chest and shred the pseudo-flesh. Bummer. I've finally got my nipples how I like them. How John likes them. Now I will have to start over.

John emerges from the lab as the guards back off. He has Davie slung over his shoulder, hands and feet bound by duct tape.

I force the guards further back until we reach the side entrance. Sarah Connor doesn't bother with the code she simply shoots the glass out. My kind of exit strategy.

We cross the grounds in darkness, the only illumination the muzzle flashes from our weapons. Police sirens heard in the distance are coming closer.

John reaches the hole in the wall first and stows Davie in the trunk of the Mercedes. He turns round. "Where's mom?"

"She was behind me."

"Go get her."

Sarah Connor is slumped against the wall clutching her right leg. "Stray round," she gasps clearly in pain.

"You're bleeding."

"A scratch. Help me up."

I assist her through the gap. John takes in the blood and her obvious distress. "In the back. Cam, can you drive without lights?"

"Of course."

"Do it. We'll be tougher to follow."

John tends to his mother in the back. "You're losing a lot of blood."

"Tourniquet. Like I taught you."

"I think you need a hospital."

"No. We have medical supplies at home."

"We're a hundred miles from home."

"No hospital."

John turns to me and says, "Floor it."

I floor it. The Mercedes rockets onto the Interstate, accelerating smoothly through the gears before topping out at 138mph, apparently the top speed. It will have to suffice. We are travelling at more than twice the speed of the rest of the traffic and without lights we are difficult for others to see. Several times only my superior reflexes prevent a serious accident.

"Can't you go any faster?"

What does he expect me to do - get out and push?

By the time we reach LA Sarah Connor is drifting in and out of consciousness. "This is bad. This is bad," John mutters over and over.

A police helicopter appears overhead, directing a cone of light to probe the streets below. With lights off we are a hard target to spot and the helicopter heads north away from us. Good. I forgot to bring my bazooka.

"Take mom inside. I'll stash Ginsberg in the basement."

I carry Sarah Connor into the safe house and lay her on the kitchen table. I assemble the medical equipment and hook her up to a portable EKG. Its beeps fill the house with sound.

"How is she?"

I tell John the truth. "Blood pressure dangerously low from bloodloss. Severe muscle damage. She requires a transfusion and soon."

"Okay. I'm a match. Do it."

"No."

"No?"

"The loss of blood will endanger your health."

"Bullshit! Do it. That's an order."

The sound of the EKG changes to a long monotonous drone.

Sarah Connor is flatlining.

**-0-**

**Touched by your concern for Desmond, a minor character at most. I'll update him in the next chapter. **

**Hope you're enjoying the fanfic. Usual mix of action, domestic trivia and my warped sense of humour. (For some reason I find the mental image of a small dog flying off a treadmill hilarious.)**

**Will Sarah survive? A better question is: will she survive intact..?**


	51. Chapter fiftyone

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SUNDAY

"Do CPR! Wait - I'll do it, you don't know your own strength."

John pumps his mother's chest with the base of his palms. "C'mon! C'mon! You're a tough bitch! Live!"

She is a tough bitch. The EKG resumes beeping. Back from the dead. Not quite like Jesus but close enough.

"Okay, she's stable." John rolls up his sleeve. "Hook me up. No arguments."

"Very well."

"How'd you learn to do all this? Were you programmed?" John asks as his blood begins to transfer through tubes to his mother's circulatory system.

"I watch medical shows on TV." I confess.

"Now she tells me!"

Sarah Connor's vital signs improve and the transfusion ends. Not before time, in my opinion.

I violated my primary mission directive: protect John Connor.

_I feel dirty._

**-0-**

Sarah Connor's vital signs stabilise. John sits up and allows me to remove the needle from his arm. "Can we move her upstairs? She'll be more comfortable in bed."

"I believe so."

"Good. You do that. I'd better check on Ginsberg. A hundred mile journey in the trunk of an automobile isn't what billionaire's are used to."

Once John has left I go to Mia's room and fetch Ricardo the Robot. I don't have much time to do what has to be done.

_"Greetings, friend Cameron. Do you wish me to entertain friend Mia?"_

"I have a mission for you, Ricardo. One you will not be returning from."

_"Very well, friend Cameron. Or may I call you...mother?"_

"You may."

**-0-**

Sarah Connor wakes as I place her on the bed.

"What happened?"

"Your heart stopped for forty-six seconds. John revived you and gave you his blood." _Against my advice_, I don't add. "I repaired the bullet wound in your leg."

"I feel like shit."

"You look like shit."

"You've got a lousy bedside manner. Anything else I should know?"

"There is a ten percent chance infection will set in and your leg will require amputation."

"You'd like that, wouldn't you? A chance to chop off my leg."

"Actually, no. Losing a limb would hinder your mobility and increase the likelihood of capture. It's important you remain bipedal."

"Your bedside manner truly sucks."

"It is what it is."

"Where's my son?"

"In the basement checking on Ginsberg."

"We need that chip, one way or another. If he's too squeamish to do what has to be done..."

"...I will do it for him."

**-0-**

I find John mixing a flask of some cloudy liquid. Davie is lying on the floor.

"What's that?"

"Salt water smoothie. To make him barf. Open his mouth."

Davie vomits almost immediately. No chip.

"Again."

The third time is the charm. The chip skitters across the floor. John picks it up. "Is this the chip?"

I examine it. "Yes." It is unharmed by the passage through Davie's digestive system.

John stares down at the prostrate billionaire. When he speaks his voice is tense with barely suppressed anger. Gone is the deference and respect of the previous day. No 'sir' or 'Professor' prefaces his remarks. He has watched his mother almost perish. He is in no mood for politesse.

"How much money is enough? How many billions do you want?"

"It wasn't about money," Davie retorts with as much dignity as he can muster when covered in his own sick. "That chip was my legacy. I'd be revered above Babbage. Berners-Lee. That bastard Gates."

"Is that what this was about - a pissing contest between billionaires?"

"You don't understand. The future-"

"You think you know the future? You don't know shit." He turns to me. "Tell him. Tell him how it is twenty years from now."

"In 2031 approximately ninety-eight percent of the current human population is dead, annihilated by nuclear holocaust. The survivors shelter in the city sewers where they are systematically hunted down by sentient machines called terminators. They will never stop until the last vestiges of mankind are erased from the face of the earth."

"No. That's science fiction. It can't be true."

"Oh yeah?" John tosses me a knife. "Show him. He deserves to know the truth."

I roll up my sleeve and make an incision just below the elbow. I extend the cut down to my wrist and peel back the layers of pseudo-flesh. I flex my fingers so the coltan rods move freely in their sheaths. Meccano has nothing on me.

"My God! You're a...a robot..."

"I prefer the term cybernetic organism." Why does everyone keep getting that wrong? We need better PR.

"That's why she hasn't aged. Why you never saw her sleep. She's one of them - a terminator sent back from the future."

"And the chip?"

"Her OS. Brain, if you like. There are many timelines. The ones where futuretech is exploited here in the present tend to end badly. That's why I couldn't let you keep it." John rubs his eyes. "Go check on mom. I'll clean up here."

**-0-**

I find Sarah Connor propped up in bed watching TV.

"They think it's a kidnapping. They're waiting for the ransom demand. The media are all over it. It's on every news channel."

On the screen is the Ginsberg estate in all its glory. Police guard the hole I smashed in the wall, keeping the reporters back. In the TV studio a short biog of Davie is played. From hippy dropout to software billionaire; notable philanthropist who donotes money to charities; bon viveur; patron of the arts; friend and confidente of Presidents. I wonder what these people would say if they could see Davie as he is now, covered in vomit on our basement floor a victim of his own hubris.

"Did you recover the chip?"

"Yes."

"They know about the Mercedes. A nationwide APB's been issued. Did John have the sense to use a false name?"

"You taught him well."

"Hide it in the garage. We'll ditch it later. What's the time?"

"Three AM."

"Mia has to be picked up no later than eight. It's a school day. He has to be gone by then."

"John knows what to do."

"There's no room for sentiment."

_No. There never is. Not in our world._

**-0-**

"This is the place."

The Suburban slows to a halt outside an abandoned drive-in movie theater, its outer facade crumbling away. It is zoned for demolition, a victim of progress. People prefer to watch movies at home curtesy of Netflix or Hulu. A sign of the times.

A chainlink fence protects the property from unauthorised access. I snap the padlock to allow John to drive round the back.

"Put him here. Gently."

I take Davie from the trunk and lay him on the cracked tarmac where people once parked their vehicles and watched movies in the open air.

"Where are we?"

"Not important. When we're clear I'll call the cops and tell them where you are. Then you have a choice."

"Choice?"

"Whether to tell the truth. Future war and killer cyborgs with silicon chips for brains."

"They'll think me quite mad! My reputation-"

"Yeah. Your reputation. I wouldn't think George Lucas'll be your buddy anymore if you start spouting that stuff. Or you could do yourself and us a solid and tell them you were blindfolded the entire time. Saw and heard nothing."

"Yes. Yes, of course. I'll do the right thing by you."

"Here. You can have this back." John drops the Amex card at Davie's feet. "Not cut out to be a millionaire. I'm more a tee shirt and jeans kinda guy."

"He does look good in a white tee," I add.

"How's Desmond?"

"Broken collarbone. And wounded pride. He still can't figure out how a slip of a girl bested him."

"He's not the first tough guy to puzzle that."

John returns to the Suburban. Davie stares up at me. "So this is it. Our final goodbye."

"Maybe not."

"How so."

"If we cannot change the present then the future will play out as before. I will be sent back to 1969."

"Woodstock. I will see you dance again."

"It's a date."

**-0-**

Three miles down the highway John pulls over to the side of the road and takes out one of the disposable cell phones. He dials 911 and tells the police where Davie is located. He ends the call before any questions are asked. He gives me the cell and I crush it in my hand, dropping the detritus out the window.

"Man, when did I last sleep?" He rubs his eyes, voice weary with fatigue. "When this is over I'm gonna sleep forever and a day."

"Will you require a wakeup call?"

A smile. "Funny."

**-0-**

Despite his tiredness John insists on driving across town to pick up Mia and Snowy. She is all smiles and jabbers about the sleepover. Only I see the effort John is making to just stay awake.

"So you had a good time?"

"Awesome! Megan has her own playroom with an XBox and a plasma and everything! Can I have one? Can I?"

"We'll see."

"Megan's sister is so cool! She said I look just like Selena Gomez!"

"Do you want to look just like Selena Gomez?"

"Yah huh!"

"Did Snowy play with the bald beaver?" I ask.

"That's not what it means!" Mia giggles. "Megan told me it means-"

"You can tell Cameron later," John interrupts hastily. "Let's get you upstairs and ready for school."

Sarah Connor appears in the doorway, supported by crutches. She has disobeyed John's instructions not to get out of bed. Mia's smile abruptly vanishes.

"What happened to you?"

"Nothing. An accident."

"Someone shot you, didn't they?"

"It's fine."

"It's not fine!" Mia bursts into tears. "First Mama. Then Papa. Now you. Why do the people I care about keep getting shot?"

John escorts her upstairs and returns twenty minutes later.

"She's calmed down a bit. It was the surprise more than anything."

"She said she cared about me," Sarah Connor muses.

"I was surprised too," I admit. This earns me a dirty look.

"Of course she cares about you!" John snaps, fatique and the stresses of the day giving his voice a harsh edge. "Cameron and I are pushovers and she knows it. You give her boundaries, scold her when she misbehaves. Every child needs a mom to do that. She probably loves you more than any of us."

For once Sarah Connor lacks a riposte. A rare occurence indeed.

**-0-**

**I'm sure you figured out what C did to Sarah's leg. I'll leave her in blissful ignorance for a couple of chapters. **

**How old is Mia someone asked? I see her as on the cusp of puberty. She was raised in the Mexican barrens so she's slightly naive and in thrall to her more worldly friend.**


	52. Chapter fiftytwo

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

MONDAY

With Sarah Connor confined to the house and John getting some much needed sleep, it falls to me to take Mia to school. She uses the opportunity to pump me for information about what happened while she was away. I do not appreciate being pumped. Except by John. Obviously.

"Fine. Don't tell me," she pouts as I stonewall another query. A few miles pass with her sulking then: "Snowy says the basement smells funky."

"Funky?"

"Like someone barfed. What's that about?"

"No idea," I lie.

"You're not gonna tell me anything, are you?"

"Your hair looks pretty. There. I told you that."

"Megan's sister braided it. She showed me how. I could do yours if you like?"

"Maybe later," I hedge. Mia recently got hold of some hair gel and used it on Snowy, leaving him looking like a small white porcupine. I have no wish to suffer a similar fate.

We arrive at school. The blonde girl Megan waits patiently at the gates. Mia smiles and waves yet makes no move to leave the vehicle. "You'll be late for class," I point out.

"Promise me Sarah won't get shot again."

"I can't promise that."

"Why do people keep getting shot? I don't think I'll be a gunrunner when I'm older. Guns are horrible. Bad things always happen."

"You could be a model like your peers recommend. I hear models travel the world. And then there's the bulimia. You wouldn't want to miss out on that."

"I guess. Maybe. I'll think about it." The bell sounds. "Oops, gotta go. Bye, Cameron."

She hugs me then joins her friend and they walk into school together. I notice several boys glance at her as she passes. Her beauty is starting to attract attention. Sooner rather than later I will have to beat off boys. This is a phrase that always makes John smile. I have no idea why.

**-0-**

Instead of driving directly home I make a stop at a supermarket, one we have never frequented. It is important to avoid routine. Repetition is a means by which our enemies could trace us.

I find what I am looking for on the shelves and load my cart, pushing it to the checkout. Only one lane is open, manned by a young woman with hair almost as long as mine. A plastic tag on her blouse strongly suggests her name is Angelina. She has a metal stud in her right nose dimple. Humans often adorn themselves with metal. Personally I prefer to wear mine on the inside.

"Wow, that's a lot of soup!" she says as she scans my purchases.

"One hundred cans of chicken soup," I confirm.

"You must really love soup."

"It's for a sick person. I saw on TV that sick people enjoy chicken soup."

Angelina smiles. "You don't want to believe all you see on TV."

"No. Like David Archuleta. Why do people say he is a great singer when he patently isn't?"

Angelina's smile fades. "I love David Archuleta," she says frostily. "And he _is _a great singer."

_Oops..._

Since Angelinia has to scan and bag the items by herself a queue forms behind me. A debate begins amongst the other customers as to the cause of the bottleneck.

_What's going on, Merv? Why isn't this line moving?_

_It's that skinny girl. She's bought all the soup._

_All the soup? Lordy, she has! Why would anyone do that?_

_I think I heard her say she's a sick person._

_Sicko, eh? There's a lot of them about._

_Doesn't look like a loony._

_You can't call them that nowadays, Merv. They're special needs._

_Oh right. Well, she doesn't look like a special needs loony._

_You can't tell just by looking._

_Pretty little thing for a loony. Sorry - special needs loony._

_What's that supposed to mean?_

_I'm just saying, for a loony - sorry sorry, special needs loony - she's quite attractive._

_And what am I - chopped liver?_

_Now, Maude-_

_Don't you now, Maude me! Maybe she'd like to wash your tidy-whiteys for you? Only they're not so tidy and definitely not very whitey when you're done with them._

_Hey - I've got a gastric condition!_

_Gastric condition, he says! It's a sluicegate opening is what it is._

_Fine. If that's how you feel, I'll go commando._

_Oh thank you for that wonderful mental image, Merv. That'll haunt my nightmares the rest of my days!_

The manager of the store arrives and observes the bottleneck. "What's going here, Angelina? Why isn't this line moving? You know the store motto, if the line's not flowing the goods aren't going." He smiles at this witticism but I notice his smile doesn't reach his eyes.

"Sorry, Mr Luter. It's only me on today. Sandra's off with flu and I don't where Kevin is."

Yes, where is that boy. Kevin! Kevin! Ah there you are."

An overweight teenage boy arrives. His face is pale and sullen.

"Where have you been, Kevin?"

"Lunchbreak."

"At ten in the morning? Hmmm, remind me to take it out of your pay. Anyway, you're here now. And tuck your shirt in. Just because you're my nephew doesn't mean you can dress like a bum."

"Sorry, Uncle Brian."

"How many times do I have to tell you? At work I'm Mr Luter, not your Uncle Brian."

"Yes, Unc-Mr Luter."

"Help this young lady with her purchases." He bestows on me another false smile. "Thank you for shopping at Kwik-E-Shop. Have a safe journey home and we hope to see you again real soon."

Kevin pushes my cart out to the lot and helps me stow the bags in the Suburban. His eyes dart furtively from my face to my chest. Is he checking out my nipples? Be kind they've only just grown back.

"," he mumbles. I hand him a hundred dollar bill as a tip. His eyes widen as he accepts and he blurts out, "I love you!" His face reddens before he turns and runs away, almost tripping over his own feet in the process. Odd. Presumably some kind of store incentive scheme to entice me back. It's definitely not working.

Merv and Maude from the checkout line emerge from the store pushing their own cart. They spot me and begin to whisper. Curious, I expand my auditory faculty and listen in.

_Look, there's that girl again! She gave that fat kid a hundred dollars - just for pushing her cart!_

_Cor, what a nutter! Sorry - special needs nutter._

_You don't suppose she's escaped from somewhere, do you?_

_Maybe I should go over and see if she'll give me some money. We could use a new sofa._

_Thanks to you and your gastric condition._

_Jeez, Maude, would you give it a rest..._

_Put a cork up there and be done with it, that's what I say. And you're not going anywhere. She could be dangerous._

_She doesn't look dangerous._

_Nor did Jeffery Dahmer. Next thing you know you're waking up in the morning with your head chopped off._

_How could you wake up in the morning if your head's chopped off? That doesn't make any sense._

_Oh, talking nonsense, am I? Well, at least I don't have an ass like a chocolate fountain!_

**-0-**

HOME

"You bought ahundredcans of soup? A _hundred?"_

Sarah Connor's voice has the same incredulous tone as Angelina at the supermarket. She is lying in bed with her bandaged leg above the covers. She doesn't seem pleased with me. No change there.

"Why chicken soup?" John asks.

"I saw on TV sick people enjoy chicken soup."

"Yeah, I thought it'd be something like that."

"Didn't anybody say anything?"

"There was some idle speculation regarding my sanity."

"I bet there was!"

"Mom, this is a kind gesture on Cameron's part. You should be thanking her."

"What's wrong with a nice bunch of flowers?"

"You eat flowers? Wouldn't that make you more ill?"

"Not if I put them in a vase. What are we going to do with a hundred cans of soup?"

"They'll store in the basement," John assures her. Snowy chooses this moment to stick his head round the door, tail wagging briskly. He has a sort of doggie ESP when it comes to food. "Snowy'll eat them, won't you, boy?"

_snowy love soup!_

"There you go. Problem solved."

"Next time only buy a few of the same item," Sarah Connor grumbles. She makes to get out of bed.

"Where d'you think you're going?" John demands.

"It's mid afternoon. I can't lie in bed all day."

"You can and you will. Doctor's orders."

"What Doctor?"

"Doctor Cameron. She saved your life. And she learnt it all from watching TV. Isn't TV wonderful?"

His mother makes some graphic suggestions as to what I can do with TV. All are impractical. A TV would never fit up there.

**-0-**

THE CHIP

With Mia away at school and Snowy in the backyard sleeping off the after-effects of consuming three cans of soup, John decides that now is an ideal time to view the newly unencrypted files. He sets his laptop on Sarah Connor's bed and plugs in the chip.

"Did Ginsberg see what's on there?"

"No. We were about to play it back when Desmond barged in and told us the cops were on their way. Kind of a moodkiller."

"A short video file, you said?"

"Yeah. Could be anything."

I sense the tension in John's voice. He has wanted this for so long and now the moment is finally at hand. But what if the video file is something totally unexpected? His mother dying of cancer. Me attempting to kill him. Or Future John himself. How will he react if he sees his older self on screen?

A picture appears. I recognise my HUD, though its clarity is much degraded. I am in the dungeon cells at Skynet HQ. Therefore it dates from before I was captured by the Resistance and my programming altered. It is the feral Cameron, the one without mercy or conscience, existing only to kill.

"Is that Skynet HQ?"

"Yes."

"Through your eyes?"

"Yes."

There is a man chained to a desk. Not John, to my relief. He's wearing the tattered remnants of a military uniform. He is in late middle age, dark hair flecked with grey. He hasn't shaved in days. Skynet do not permit this ritual; captured humans might use the blade to kill themselves. That is our job.

"Recognise him?"

"No."

The man raises his head. There is blood all over, most likely from torture, yet his face has a defient mien. This is a man not easily cowed by machines.

"Well, have you checked what I told you?"

_"Yes."_ The voice of Skynet replies.

"Then you must believe me. I am responsible for your existence. Without me you would never have been created in the first place. May God have mercy on my soul."

_"We have checked the historical record. What you say is accurate. You are telling the truth."_

"Your verdict?" My voice heard for the first time. Toneless, devoid of emotion. Another Cameron. A stranger

_"Terminate the prisoner."_

I watch as my hands reach out and choke the life out of the man.

The screen goes blank. No one speaks.

"That is so not what I expected," John whispers.

"Who was he?" Sarah Connor demands.

"No facial match. However, I have heard his voice before. So has John."

"I have? When?"

"He was the person you spoke to when you called Jerold Ramirez. The person I spoke to before I blew up the second safe house."

"So he's NSA. Or whatever government agency is after us."

"He said he was responsible for creating Skynet," Sarah Connor muses. "And you truly don't remember this?"

"Cross my heart and hope to die."

"That would a lot more meaningful if you actually had a heart."

"This must be why Skynet encrypted the file. If we can find this guy..."

"How do we know it was Skynet who encrypted the file?"

"It's either that or me. Why would I do it?"

"Aren't you forgetting something? That Brewster woman said Judgement Day happens because Cameron is captured. If we go looking for someone who's after us we could end up delivering her right into their clutches."

"So we sit on our hands and do nothing?"

"As far as this chip is concerned that would be my call. It's a dead end."

"Why wasn't the file just deleted?" John asks me.

"It is sometimes possible to retrieve deleted files. Encryption is more permanent."

"This is the way I see it. Skynet encrypted the file because it was sending Cameron to kill me. It knew I could reprogram the chips and there was a risk if she was captured I'd find the memory and use it against them."

"Or future you encrypted it so we wouldn't go racing off on a wild goose chase that ends badly. Like end of the world badly."

But John is not to be dissuaded. He watches the video over and over. There are more questions than answers and the future seems even more inscrutable than it did before.

**-0-**

The rest of the day passes. I fetch Mia from school. Once home she heads straight for Sarah Connor's room and shyly presents her with a gift, a ceramic mug she made in pottery class. Sarah Connor is delighted - despite the fact that it isn't the least bit symetrical - and the two hug warmly. How is a stupid mug better than a hundred cans of chicken soup? Total double standards.

I find John in the attic room, sitting pensive on the edge of the bed and brooding over the video. I decide to do something that never fails to cheer him up.

"No, Cam. Not now."

He pushes my face away from his groin. "But you enjoy me doing this."

"I'm not in the mood. I'm not a mach- not in the mood."

_I'm not a machine._

That is what he intended to say.

_I'm not a machine._

No. But I am. And always will be. There is that between us. Now. And always.

"I understand. You no longer desire me. This body has become too familiar. We have exhausted the _Kama Sutra_. You seek someone new, one of the girls from the beach who have larger boobs and wear bikinis that display their butt cheeks."

"What? No! You're being paranoid. I'm just frustrated over the chip. All the risks we took, mom almost dying... and nothing. Who is that guy? D'you how hard it is to track down a face and a voice without a name? Impossible."

"What would you do if you found him?"

"I don't know."

"The logical action would be to kill him."

"Before he's committed a crime? That's murder."

"If you had the opportunity to kill Hitler or Stalin before they committed their attrocities, would you do so?"

"Well, yeah."

"Skynet murders far more people than those tyrants combined."

"It's a moot point. We have no way to find out who he is."

"There might be a way."

"What d'you mean?"

"How much do you trust me?"

**-0-**

**Merv and Maude. Not a couple you'd invite round for tea. Unless you're a proctologist.**

**The chip. The hunter becomes the hunted...**


	53. Chapter fiftythree

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

WEDNESDAY

I launch myself off the top of the wall, the pistons that approximate human quadrocep muscles easily absorbing the impact of the eighteen feet drop. I straighten up slowly and survey my surroundings. Shrubs. Trees both juvenile and mature. An expanse of lawn split by a tarmac driveway that leads to my intended destination.

The Fresno Asylum for the Criminally Insane.

Here be loonies.

_And Eleanor Ryan._

I walk purposefully up the driveway. It is the middle of the night so all is dark and quiet. A small parking lot adjacent to the main building is occupied by just a few vehicles. The night shift. One of the vehicles has its interior light on. A woman is checking her makeup in the rearview mirror. She is wearing a guards uniform.

_Excellent..._

"Oh! You startled me," she exclaims as I appear alongside. "Are you here for visiting hours, sugar? Sorry, you'll have to come back later. Or do I mean earlier?" She chuckles at this witticism.

I tilt my head slightly and smile.

"That's a nice uniform..."

**-0-**

The guard's name is Monique. It says so on her security swipe card. Monique doesn't appreciate being stripped down to her bra and panties, bound and gagged and stuffed in the trunk of her Ford Taurus. She gazes reproachfully up at me as I slam the trunk closed. She is more fortunate than she knows. In the past I would have snapped her neck and simply taken what I wanted. John's influence has mellowed me.

Monique has the same size feet as me so her shoes are a perfect fit. Not so the uniform. It is so roomy I am practically swimming in it. Why do all the women I meet have bigger boobs than me? I blame Alison Young. No milkers on her.

The vast doors of the Asylum open to a swipe of the card. Inside and to the right is a reception desk manned by another female guard who is chatting on the phone. She doesn't look up as I enter. Good. She would likely recognise I am not her colleague. Apart from anything else I'm not black.

I turn left to be confronted by steel bars. Another swipe of the card and these open and clang shut behind me. I am locked inside with the loonies. How frightening.

_For them._

The cells extend both sides of a long wide corridor. The occupants names are neatly inscribed on the metal doors. I find E RYAN next to L LOHAN. Poor Linds, she never learns.

The door yields to my touch. Inside is dark - it's the middle of night after all. I locate the light switch. The cell is different than others I have seen. There is a table, shelves laden with books and posters on the walls of a dark haired boy who doesn't seem to possess a shirt. It could almost be a teenagers bedroom. The only giveway it is a cell the high window with bars across.

Mad Ellie sleeps in a side cot. She is altered from my last memories of her. The hair is shorter and she lacks the usual kohl eye makeup and black nail varnish. The pyjamas she is wearing have a bunny motif. Makes a change from vampire bats.

I place my hand over her mouth and shake her awake.

"Do you you remember me?"

Wild staring eyes and a frantic nod of the head.

"Then you know what I am capable of. You're not going to scream, are you? I wouldn't like it if you screamed."

A frantic shake of the head. I remove my hand.

"C...C...Cameron? How did you get in?"

"Through the door." _Duh!_

"Is everybody d...d...dead?"

"It wasn't necessary."

"What do you want?"

"Information."

"Listen, I'm sorry I went to the police. I couldn't stand it any more. I couldn't sleep or eat. My conscience was killing me."

Ah yes, the human conscience. What a troublesome organ it is. I am glad I don't have one.

"You told the police about me."

"I'm sorry! Please don't kill me!"

"Someone came to see you after the police. A man who asked specific questions about me. Correct?"

"Uh - yeah. Daddy didn't want to let him speak to me. He flashed his badge and Daddy turned white as a sheet."

"This man wanted to know all about me."

"Yeah. The police scoffed when I told them you were, you know, a monster. Not this guy. He believed me."

"You told him about my hacking the LAPD."

"He was seriously interested by that. He made me tell him everything. I didn't know that much. I only drove you there and back."

"What was this man's name?"

"Creed. Rubin Creed."

_Finally. A name to go with the face and voice._

"Does he have a title?"

"Title?"

"Does he hold a military rank."

"I don't know. I don't think so. I know Daddy seemed really scared of him."

I ask Ellie a few more questions but it is clear she has little else of merit to divulge.

"Goodbye, Ellie."

"You're going already?"

"You expected me to stay for tea?"

A smile. "I guess not."

"I have one last question for you. Who is the boy on the wall?"

"Oh - that's Taylor Lautner."

"Friend of yours?"

"I wish! He plays a werewolf."

A werewolf. It seems Ellie hasn't entirely abandoned her belief in supernatural nonsense.

"Nice pecs," I concede.

"He's a God!"

_Gods. Werewolves. Vampires._ This curious need humans have for fantasy figures to titillate their lives.

I open the door. Outside stand a female guard and a male orderly dressed in white. "That's not Monique," the guard pronounces. "I don't know who the hell she is but she's definitely not Monique."

The orderly uses a short white baton to poke me in the throat. A red warning icon lights up in my HUD. I have sustained a strong electrical charge. Not sufficient to overload my CPU but still - rude much!

The orderly frowns when nothing happens. He attempts to jab me again. I yank the baton out of his grasp and jab him instead. The consequences are dramatic. He falls to the floor and convulses, voiding his bowels in the process. It appears he can dish it out but he can't take it.

The woman backs up several paces. "The stun wand's not working! Probably high on PCP. Bring the trank gun."

Another male orderly appears. He has a rifle which he aims and pulls the trigger.

_Pfft!_

A feathery dart embeds itself in my neck. An amber warning icon. A strong narcotic has entered my pseudo-flesh. If I had a bloodstream I would be unconscious on the floor.

"Huh?"

The orderly seems surprised the dart has had no effect. I grab his rifle and use the butt to pummel him. This is how you render someone unconscious. Old school.

_!_

The sound of the female guard's heels as she flees down the corridor. I shoulder the rifle and fire a dart into her neck. She collapses to the ground and lies still.

"Help! For God's sake send help!"

The guard on the desk frantically yells into the telephone for assistance. I put a dart in her neck and she too joins the others in the land of nod."

_"Oh my God..."_

I whirl round, bringing the rifle to bear. Mad Ellie cowers back in the cell doorway.

"A...A...Are they dead?"

"Merely sleeping. Do you wish to escape? Now is your chance."

A shake of the head. "I killed a girl. I deserve to be here."

She always did like being punished.

**-0-**

I hear the first police sirens as I pass Monique's Taurus. I pick up my discarded clothes and walk out the front gate, ignoring the CCTV cameras on the wall. There is no need for stealth anymore.

"Wow. In that get up you look like Rosa Krebs," John says as I join him in the Suburban.

"Not Pussy Galore?" I am familiar with the Bond canon.

"Did you get it?"

"I have the name."

"Any casualties?"

"One minor concussion. Another man emptied his bowels in front of me."

"Shit happens," John grins.

**-0-**

HOME

"Rubin Creed. With a name like that he should be doddle to track down."

John is exultant and wastes no time in opening his computer and logging on to the internet. Five hours later, frustration and despondancy has replaced elation.

"There are seven Rubin Creed's in North America," he reports wearily. "Six I found photos and biographies to match. None are him."

"And the seventh?"

"A three year old child in Toledo, Ohio. I think we can rule him out."

"So the girl lied?"

"She wouldn't dare," I reply. "I would've known.

"Okay, so maybe this NSA agent gave a false name."

John shakes his head. "I don't think so. Cameron said he flashed his badge to the girl's father who's a lawyer. Why take the risk? I think the name's legit."

"So - what? He's gone off the grid like us?"

"It makes sense. It's obviously a black ops of some kind they're running."

"So another dead end."

"I'm gonna keep looking. No one can go off grid entirely. We're proof of that."

I get the impression Sarah Connor isn't too dismayed at John's failure to trace Rubin Creed. This is a dangerous man with the full panapoly of the state behind him. And there is always the risk that in going after him I will be captured and my chip incorporated into the Skynet mainframe. Kate Brewster's appearance is proof it has happend before. And could do so again. Timelines are tricky that way.

SUNDAY

"It smells of paint in here!"

"That's because we've just painted the walls," John points out logically. "It'll wear off, pumpkin. Trust me."

John and I have just finished redecorating the basement so Mia can use it as a playroom or den. I am wearing bib overalls and scuffed sneakers and my hair is pinned up. There is a smudge of paint on my nose. I still look sexy though._ Duh!_

"It's not as big as Megan's."

"Because that girl lives in a freaking palace!"

"And the plasma's different."

"It's an LED not a plasma," I explain. "LED stands for Light Emitting Diode. Invented in-"

_"Cam, remember what we discussed,"_ John whispers.

What we discussed was my being less anal. No one likes anal. Except on special occasions. I forego the rest of the history lesson.

"You're all set. There's your dollhouse. Bean bags. Snowy's treadmill. Pinball machine. Xbox. Table fussbol. And by the way, you totally cheated last time."

"Did not!"

"Did too."

"Did not!"

"Did three," I exclaim. This causes Mia to laugh. As I knew it would. I am finally learning the nuances of certain types of humour. Though toilet humour continues to puzzle me. What is funny about poop?

"And there's an intercom built into the wall so we can tell you when it's time for lunch. Or bed."

He doesn't add that it will also alert us to her whereabouts so she is less likely to burst in on us unexpectedly when we are getting jiggy with it.

"I'm sad," she pouts.

"Oh come on, Mia!" John exclaims. "I know Megan's is bigger but I'd have loved a place like this when I was your age."

"I'm not sad about here. I'm sad because school ends soon."

"Summer break. Man, that was my favourite part of the year. Why are you sad?"

"Megan spends summer in Cape Cod with her folks. I won't see her for weeks and weeks."

"You can speak on the phone. And you've got that video app I showed you how to use."

"It's not the same. What is Cape stupid Cod anyway?"

Finally an occasion for me to be anal. "Cape Cod is a penisula of land in the state of Massachusetts on the northeastern seaboard of the United States."

"Maybe I can cycle there and then back before supper?" Mia suggests hopefully.

"Cape Cod is 2,661 miles from Los Angeles. A person of your age and fitness should be able to cycle fifteen miles a day. A round trip would require 354 days."

"Oh. I guess cycling's out then."

_Slacker._

"Cheer up, munchkin. We'll do plenty of fun stuff ourselves. Go to the beach. And there's a new Mall in Reseda we can check out. Maybe we'll go hiking in the mountains. I know a few trails."

"Will we sleep in a tent?"

"Sure."

"What about Snowy? He can't sleep unless the light's on."

"Uh - okay, we'll take a storm lantern with us. Man, I think mom's right. We spoil that dog."

Snowy chooses this moment to enter the room. He begins sniffing around the skirting board.

"What are you after, boy?"

_snowy need dirtbox! poopsies!_

"He says he wants a dirtbox to poop in," Mia translates for John's benefit, using the iPhone app to decipher the barks.

"No way. You need to poop you go outside. You'll be wanting a diaper next."

"Snowy'd sure look funny in a diaper!" Mia giggles.

We all agree Snowy would look ridiculous in a diaper. Except Snowy who thinks he would look rather dashing. He is outvoted three to one. No diaper for him.

THURSDAY

John finds me in the attic room ironing my clothes. I like a nice neat crease. He smiles at seeing me in my underwear. Is he about to innitiate coitus? I will have to turn the iron off first. It wouldn't do for something sensitive to get burned.

"I thought I'd find you here. Mia says Ricardo the Robot isn't working. I told her the battery probably needed changing."

"No. I removed Ricardo's chip and some other components and incorporated them into your mother's leg."

"You did -_ what?"_

"The bullet damaged her muscle beyond repair. Without cybernetic assistance she would be permanantly crippled."

"Does she know about this?"

"She didn't ask therefore I saw no reason to explain."

"Good. Keep this under your hat."

"I don't wear a-"

"Don't tell anyone!" John runs a hand through his hair. He appears distracted. Coitus seems a long shot.

"Why didn't you tell me at least?"

"You were preoccupied with Davie. I had to act fast. The risk of infection and an amputation was too great. Did I do something wrong?"

"Yes! No! I...don't know. Will she notice what you've done?"

"She should experience increased levels of strength and stamina since Ricardo's chip will regulate the onset of lactic acid buildup, a prime cause of muscle fatique."

"Clift version - she'll run faster for longer?"

"Correct. Physical performance should be enhanced by approximately thirty percent."

"Thirty percent? Oh man, she's bound to notice that."

"Maybe she won't."

"And pigs might fly."

This seems unlikely. These porcine creatures aren't noted for their aerodynamic qualities.

**-0-**

**The return of Mad Ellie. Briefly. I like to recycle my characters. This is a very Green fanfic!**

**Yup, Sarah kinda has a cybernetic leg. Just don't ask me how. **


	54. Chapter fiftyfour

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

AUGUST

August arrives and school is out for the summer, meaning Mia is home round the clock. This requires someone to always be here since she is too young to look after herself and Snowy is deemed too irresponsible. He is far too easily distracted by food. Or other dogs. Or anything that moves or makes a noise. He has the attention span of a fruit fly.

John keeps his promise and takes Mia to the beach. However when it comes to visiting the new Mall in Reseda she requests I accompany her. This is because I permit her to buy whatever she likes. This is called being a pushover. It's only money after all. We return with heaps of clothes, toys, and fifty tubs of Ben & Jerry ice cream. Sarah Connor isn't impressed, even less so when Snowy consumes an entire tub and is promptly sick on the floor. I am ordered to clean it up. Since when do my terminator duties include cleaning up dog sick?

The media furore over the Ginsberg kidnapping gradually abates. Davie refuses all requests for a public interview and retreats behind the high walls of his Palm Springs mansion, leaving the media to speculate whether a ransom was paid and if so - how much? Five million. Ten million. Fifty million dollars are figures bandied about. The police investigation doesn't mention us by name. Nor is any security camera footage released. More signs that the government agency after us is using its influence to keep things under wraps.

Mia talks to her friend Megan every day on the phone and the two swap video messages. Yet she never loses the gnawing fear that Megan will cease to be her friend, usurped by the Van Buren girl who is also vacationing in Cape Cod. Human friendships are fragile and made more tenuous by absence and distance. Mia has suffered many losses in her short life and is fretful of another. On these occasions she turns to John for comfort since his peripatetic childhood means he can empathise. Sarah Connor's brusque advice to make some new friends only makes her more tearful.

WEDNESDAY

The time arrives for Sarah Connor to have the sutures in her leg removed. Predictably she is less than a model patient.

"Just watch what you're doing."

"That is my intention."

"Shouldn't you wear latex gloves?"

"My pseudo-flesh is perfectly sterile."

"Must you use that expression?"

"Sterile?"

"Pseudo-flesh. How hard is it to say skin?"

"Skin."

"There. Not hard at all."

"Will you require painkillers?"

"What d'you think?"

"Fine. Be a firm ass."

A smirk. "The expression is hardass."

"You don't like me very much, do you?"

"Let's see, you were created to murder my son and almost succeeded. Twice. You do the math."

I do the math. She doesn't like me.

The wound has healed well, helped no doubt by the cybernetic enhancements that optimize tissue regeneration. Not that I intend to tell her this.

Once the sutures are removed Sarah Connor tentatively flexes her leg. "Thank goodness they're out; the itching was driving me crazy. There were times I thought something was inside trying to get out."

_Ricardo._ "Just your imagination."

"Like you'd know anything about imagination."

She puts her pants back on but makes no move to leave. Odd. She normally can't wait to get away from me.

"John's still searching for that man, the government agent," she states quietly."

"Yes."

"There'll be trouble if he tracks him down. He'll try and persuade him over to our side, make an ally. Creed isn't like Miles Dyson. Dyson was a scientist; he believed in cold hard logic and the evidence of his own eyes. Creed is a company stooge, probably ex-military. He'll think we're trying to trick him."

"If the video is correct he's responsible for the formation of Skynet."

"All the more reason to keep our distance until we know for sure how it happens."

"Or a perfectly valid reason to end his life."

"Who encrypted the video file and why, that's what I'd like to know before we start handing out death sentences."

"There's no way of knowing."

"Says you."

"You doubt my veracity?"

"Where you're concerned, always."

She stands up and gingerly places her full weight on the right leg. "Feels good. No soreness at all. Maybe I'll go for a light jog."

"You should take it easy at first. Baby steps."

"Baby steps? Coming from you that sounds positively obscene."

What a charmer.

**-0-**

SATURDAY

Mia's head breaks the surface of the swimming pool and she gulps down great lungfuls of air. "How long was I under?" she demands.

I make a pretence of consulting the stopwatch in my hand although the time is right there in my HUD. "One minute twenty seconds."

"New record! I bet you couldn't beat that!"

This is a bet she would lose by a considerable margin. Try a hundred years. And then some.

The summer has been hot even by southern California standards and the pool is in daily use. Mia spends so much time in the water John suggests she is in danger of becoming a mermaid. A mermaid is half fish and half girl. I consider the likelihood remote but will continue to monitor the situation. A mermaid would bring many logistical problems. And she would likely be teased at school.

She swims over to the side of the pool where I am dangling my legs, experiencing the cool water flowing against my sensors. I feel her fingers inscribing random patterns on the soles of my feet. "What are you doing?" I ask.

"Seeing if you're ticklish."

"Am I?"

"You should know, silly."

"I feel no different."

"Then you're not ticklish. Not everyone is. I am. I laugh so hard I almost pee myself!"

I tell her a similar outcome is improbable."

She rolls onto her back and swims out to the middle of the pool, red swimsuit vivid in the translucent water. "D'you remember Mexico, where we first met?"

"Of course."

"The quarry lake with the raft?"

"Yes."

"D'you think the raft is still afloat?"

"It's possible. It was sturdily constructed."

"I bet it's lonely there all on its own."

"The raft is an inanimate object. It cannot feel loneliness."

"No?"

"Trust me."

"I still miss Papa. Will that ever go away?"

"I don't know."

"Is your father still alive?"

I hesitate. Technically my father or progenitor - Skynet - is yet to be born. I hedge my bets. "Possibly."

"D'you miss him?"

"We have issues." _Like Skynet wants me to murder the man I love._

"I wonder what Megan's doing in Cape Cod? What time's it there?"

"Three fifteen."

"How come it's only one fifteen here?"

I explain about the different times zones and why they're necessary.

"You're really smart!"

"Yes, I am."

"I bet you were the smartest girl in school."

"Yes, I was." Modest much? Not me.

"Everyone says I'm the prettiest girl in school - except Emma Van Buren. Bitch. D'you think I'm pretty?"

"Your facial features have a pleasing symmetry."

"So I'm a hottie?"

"A proto-hottie. You won't be a hottie until you grow boobies."

"You said boobies!"

"So did you."

"I don't think I want to be a model. Megan says models don't eat and just walk up and down in a straight line all day long."

"You prefer something less strenuous?"

"Megan says I should try porno. You lie on your back all day and people give you shots of money."

"Shots of money?"

"Dollar bills, I guess."

I agree porno sounds a restful and lucrative profession.

"Look - Snowy's having another contest with Mr Tibbles!"

Snowy often has trials of will with Mr Tibbles, the cat that lives next door. Today they seeing who can stand on three legs the longest. So far Snowy demonstrates strong resolve, balancing with his front right paw held stiffly in the air. Then disaster strikes. A dog barks in the street outside and he instinctively turns in that direction to bark a reply, dropping his paw to the ground as he does so.

"Oh Snowy - you've lost!"

Realising what he's done Snowy bows his head sheepishly. Mr Tibbles walks away with his long thin tail swishing in a disdainful manner, the victor once more.

"There's my two favourite gals."

John emerges from the house carrying two cans of cherry cola. He opens one and tosses the other to Mia who catches it deftly in one hand. She no longer enquires why he never brings me anything to eat or drink. The cover story is I am watching the calories like a typical teenage girl. As if.

"I held my breath underwater for one minute twenty seconds!"

"New record?"

"Yeah!"

"Just be careful, okay? Don't try it unless someone's here to keep an eye on you."

"No problemo."

John smiles. It's an expression that seems to mean a lot to him.

The backgate opens and Sarah Connor enters the yard. She's completed her morning run. She wears her usual running outfit of trainers, shorts and singlet. "I think there's something wrong with my watch," she complains. "It's telling me I beat my personal best by over three minutes. That's impossible. An Olympic runner couldn't run that fast."

"Maybe you took a short cut by mistake?" John suggests.

"No, took my usual route. I haven't been sleeping that well lately - just two or three hours. Yet I've got all this energy. I feel like I could run another ten miles."

She goes inside to shower. John and I swap glances.

_A thirty percent improvement in performance._

I may have to revise that figure upwards.

**-0-**

SUNDAY

Breakfast is over. Mia and Snowy are in the basement den playing a game of table fussbol. I hope Snowy doesn't swallow the ball again. It's getting old. And messy when it reappears.

I am loading the dishwasher when John quietly announces, "I've got a lead."

Neither Sarah Connor or I have to ask what he means. He has been obsessed with finding Rubin Creed for weeks now.

"I've been researching the conspiracy forums online. I've found someone who has information on Creed."

"Who?"

"He calls himself the King of Nerdz."

"Oh well, with a name like that he can't possibly be a nutjob."

"Not everyone on the conspiracy forums is crazy, mom."

"What's Elvis doing these days - shacking up with Bigfoot?"

"Bigfoot's gay?" I exclaim. Who knew?

"He's agreed to sell me what he knows."

"For how much?"

"A thousand dollars. Look, I know it's a long shot. He lives in Pasadena so what are we out - a tank of gas."

"And a thousand bucks."

"In the future humans burn money to stay warm," I declare.

Silence. This is called bumming people out. I'm very good at it.

**-0-**

PASADENA

"Here we are. Casa Grande Street, Pasadena."

John and I are in another rental car - a precaution Sarah Connor insisted upon. She isn't with us. She said to give Elvis and Bigfoot her best. I think she was joking.

"Look for number ten."

Number ten Casa Grande Street is a standard two-storey tract house, just like its neighbours. A short driveway and a front yard with a palm tree, its fronds moving lazily in the light breeze. We are less than two blocks from the freeway.

I am wearing my favourite boots, freshly laundered jeans and a new croptop. I want to look my best. I have never met royalty before. I wonder if I should curtsey?

"This doesn't look like the place a King would live."

"Guess the economy's hurting everyone," John grins.

A woman in early middle age opens the door. The Queen of Nerdz possibly.

"Can I help you?"

"We're looking for the -_ uh _- King of Nerdz?"

"Oh you mean Erik. How d'you know him?"

"We met online. Is Erik your husband?"

"Lordy no! Erik's my son. He's in the basement. He doesn't get many visitors and I can't seem to persuade him to go outside. Maybe you'll have better luck. It can't be healthy being stuck down there all day."

We descend a short flight of steps. A boy with a pale face, long hair and a Megadeath tee shirt looks round from his computer monitor. He isn't wearing a crown. Bummer.

"_You're_ the King of Nerdz?"

"Who wants to know?"

"I'm John. From online."

"Who's the girl?"

"This is Cameron."

"Greetings, your majesty." I decide not to curtsey. Erik frowns. Big mistake, I've offended royalty!

"How old are you anyway?"

"Sixteen next month. You bring the money?"

The envelope containing the thousand dollars is handed over. While Erik counts it I take a look around. An unmade cot bed. Discarded clothes. A tatty barcalounger. Shelves full of books. Comic books scattered around plus some adult themed magazines. The caption on one reads:

INSIDE! GIRLS WITH HUGE NATURALS!

Lucky them. Mine are neither.

"Hey - what's she doing?"

What I am doing is examining a weapon the like of which I have never seen before.

"Where did you get this?"

"Ebay. It's the phaser Sulu used in _Wrath of Khan."_

A phaser. I aim it at the wall and press the trigger. Nothing happens.

"Why isn't it working?"

"It's a prop, Cam. A fake gun used in movies. They add the special effects later." John explains

I replace the phaser on the shelf next to another adult themed magazine that is captioned:

INSIDE! WE'VE GOT MILKERS!

Honestly. Rub it in why don't you.

Erik says, "Okay, I'll start at the beginning. In 1969 Apollo 11 investigated a crashed UFO on the moon."

John holds up a hand. "Hang on, that's the plot to the new _Transformers_ movie."

"Yeah, the government is using Hollywood to convince us to believe it's not real."

"Mom was right. This is bullshit."

"Wouldja let me finish? Armstrong screwed up and landing miles from the target. Apollo 12 was right on the money."

"Come on, seriously?"

"You ever see any video footage from Apollo 12?"

"Didn't the camera break or something?"

"Dude, get real. A billion dollar moonshot and they only take one camera?"

"Give me the damn money. We're outta here."

"These are the two aliens they brought back."

On the computer screen are photographs of Cromartie and a T-800.

"Uncle Bob!" John exclaims.

"What?"

"Uh - nothing. Reminded me of someone."

"These are aliens in humanoid form. Immensely strong. The one on the left was active 20 years ago. The other one as recently as three. They escaped from Area 51 in Nevada. There's a rumour a third's on the loose. A female."

"Is she pretty?" I ask.

"Don't have a photo of her."

"I expect she's pretty," I insist.

"What d'you know about_ Project Bluebook_?"

"Uh - flying saucers?" John can't take his eyes from the screen.

"Right. In 1952 the USAF started investigating UFO reports. It was officially disbanded by Nixon in 1969."

"What's this got to do with Rubin Creed?"

"After 9/11, Creed was put in charge of investigating any threat to National security posed by so-called anomalous pheonomena."

"No, Creed is NSA not USAF."

"Dude, he isn't anything. He's unattached. He can call on any agencies for help and they have to provide it but he isn't officially part of them. No Congress is ever gonna question this guy. He answers only to the President."

"How d'you know all this? You're just a kid."

"The King of Nerdz knows all, my friend. Creed heads up a department called The Praesidium Project. Praesidium is Latin and means-"

"Protection," I interject. I am programmed to be fluent in all modern day languages and most old so-called 'dead' dialects. You should hear my Mesopitamian throat chants.

"Yeah, she's right. And this is the kicker - he's authorized to use whatever he finds to protect and serve this country. That's why he's got such a hard-on for these aliens. He wants them to head up an army. Like the freaking_ Avengers!. _And there's a kid in Ohio can start fires."

"Anyone can start a fire. All you need is matches, gasoline and a bad attitude."

"Dude, this guy can start fires with his _mind!_ Imagine someone like that behind enemy lines."

"I thought this was about protecting the country?"

"The best defence is a good offense. Football 101."

"Where can I find Creed?"

"Dude, haven't you been listening? This guy is serious bad news. He finds out you're looking for him you're likely to end up in the state pen. Or worse."

"You don't know how to find him, do you?"

Erik squirms in his seat. "He's kinda hard to pin down. He's totally off the grid."

John snatches back the envelope of cash. "No address no deal."

"Look - I might have a lead. Word is Creed has a daughter. Pre-teen. She goes to school right here in LA."

"Name?"

"Inga or Irma, something like that."

"Surname?"

"Don't know. Definitely not Creed."

"School?"

"Don't know."

"And you want a thousand dollars for a big heap of don't know?"

"Please, man? Since Pop left mom's been having trouble making the rent. I really wanna help her out."

"And this daughter's right here in LA?"

"Swear to God, man."

John hands back the money. He looks around. "Your mom says you never leave this basement."

"Why should I? Got everything I need right here."

"Yeah? What about sports?"

"Got my XBox. My man John Madden. I'm gee2gee."

"Gee2gee?" I ask.

"Good to go."

Gee2gee = good to go. I add this to my database.

"What about girls?" John asks.

Erik glances at me and at the adult magazines then, oddly, at an opened box of Kleenex. Possibly he has a cold. "I'm fine. Don't worry about the King of Nerdz. He rules all."

"Look, I know all this stuff seems real to you. I get it. I do. But there's a whole other world out there. And you might not have much longer to enjoy it. Plus you're looking kinda pale, dude. It's great weather. Go out and get some rays."

As John and I are leaving we almost bump into Erik's mother. She's carrying a tray laden with three glasses of lemonade and a plate of cakes.

"Not leaving so soon? I brought refreshments."

"Yeah, we live across town. Gotta beat the traffic. It's a nightmare this time of day."

"You'll come back surely?"

"Uh..."

"Oh please come back. Erik's a good boy, really. He just went off the rails a little when his father ran off with that slut from the bar. Then there was the bullying at school. Please come back and see him? He has so few real friends."

Erik's mother looks so forlorn that John smiles and nods. "We'll be happy to come back."

"Would you care for some cakes?"

"We're gee2gee." I announce.

"I'm sorry?"

"It means good to go," I explain._ Duh._

As we drive home I say, "Why did you lie to his mother? We have all the information he can provide. We will never return."

"I know. Sometimes a little white lie is the kinder option."

So lies come in different colours and sizes. Interesting. I wonder what a large orange lie is like?

**-0-**

**Mesopitamian throat chants. Love that line! No idea what it means.**


	55. Chapter fiftyfive

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

SUNDAY

Sarah Connor isn't impressed by our findings in Pasadena and wastes no time in telling us so.

"A thousand dollars for a partial girl's name and a crackpot theory about a crashed spaceship on the moon. You might as well have thrown the money in the trash."

"Mom, he had photos of Cromartie and Uncle Bob. He'd even heard rumours about Cameron. Sure the backstory was crazy but let's face it - time travelling cyborgs from the future sounds every bit as nuts as a spaceship on the moon."

"Plus we got to meet royalty," I add.

"A teenager living in his mom's basement is royalty?"

"Royals are often eccentric. King George III of England believed he was a teapot."

Mia enters the room. "Cool, you're back! Did you bring me a present?"

"Let's see..." John examines the contents of his pocket. "Cherry Lifesaver. A nickel. An old rubber band. Take your pick."

"Those aren't proper presents!"

"Best I can do."

"You can't expect a gift every time someone leaves the house," Sarah Connor tells her. "Besides you bought enough toys to last a lifetime when you visited the Mall."

"Yeah, that was awesome! Cameron let me buy anything I wanted. It was the haul of the century!"

"Which is why you two aren't ever going shopping together again."

"That's not fair!"

"Neither of you understands the value of money."

"Cameron does! She's really smart. You're just a mean old troll."

"Bed. Now."

"What? It's only seven o'clock!"

"You should have thought of that before you called me a troll."

"A mean old troll," I add helpfully. This earns me a scowl.

Snowy enters the room, sniffing around for possible food.

"Don't bother, Snowy. They didn't bring us back anything."

"That's not true. Here, boy. Catch."

John throws the cherry lifesaver which Snowy catches in his jaws and chomps down. His tail wags happily. He is easily pleased where his stomach is concerned.

"There." John grins. "At least someone appreciates us."

**-0-**

John loses no time in trying to trace Creed's daughter. He includes all pre-teen girl's names starting with an I currently enrolled in the LA education system.

"I'm excluding any black, asian or hispanic girls since we know Creed is white," he explains while hunched over the screen.

"Suppose the mother is black, asian or hispanic? Or the daughter is adopted?"

"Cam, don't make this harder than it already is. Even this way I'm gonna have like a thousand names to sift through."

**-0-**

MONDAY

Today is the first day of the new school year and Mia is extremely nervous. Not about school itself but the state of her friendship.

"Suppose Megan doesn't want to be my friend anymore? Suppose she blanks me! I bet Emma Van Buren's been telling a whole bunch of lies about me in Cape Cod."

"You'll be fine," John assures her. "Didn't you speak to her on the phone two days ago? She was still your friend then."

"That was two whole days ago!"

"I'm sure you'll be fine. Look, there she is."

Megan stands by the school gate, a vision of blondeness in a new school uniform. Mia hops from the Suburban and rushes over. The two friends hug and start chatting as if all the anxiety and doubts of the intervening weeks never happened.

"Big fuss over nothing," John grins. "Pity I didn't bring a camera. That was definitely a kodak moment."

"I could run a print off my memory cell if you wish."

"Right. I forget you record stuff. _Uh_ -you don't record everything, do you?"

"Yes."

"Even our -_ uh _- intimate moments?"

"Of course."

"Oh man, eat your heart out Paris Hilton!"

"Why would Paris Hilton eat her own heart?"

"She's an heiress. Crazier than bedbugs."

I decide not to pursue a followup query regarding the sanity of insects.

We head home. Or rather we don't.

"This isn't our normal route."

"Little detour."

"Where to?"

"Surprise."

The surprise is a secluded lane near the canyons where we can't be easily overseen. Here we have energetic sex in the backseat of the Suburban. This doesn't go entirely to plan since during our gyrations I manage to stick my foot through one of the side windows.

"Don't worry. We'll tell mom it's loose chippings damage."

"And she'll believe that?"

"Why wouldn't she?"

This becomes apparent when we arrive home.

"A loose chipping caused this?" Sarah Connor asks inspecting the damage.

"Yeah. They were resurfacing the highway. Must've been thrown up by another vehicle."

"Oh really? Then why is there no glass on the inside?"

"Er..."

"Rookie mistake. Get it fixed. And next time open the windows first."

"What did she mean - rookie mistake?" I ask once we are alone.

"I think it's mom's way of saying there's nothing we can do that she hasn't done before. She was a pretty wild teenager."

"Maybe we should ask if she knows any sex moves we haven't tried yet?"

John stares at me as if I have just suggested something utterly ludricrous - like flapping our arms to fly to the moon.

"Cam, that is one conversation that's never gonna happen. Not in a million years."

"A million years is a long time."

"For sex advice from your mom? Not nearly long enough."

-0-

WEDNESDAY

With Mia back at school, Snowy is at a loose end once more. He mopes around the garden in a listless manner. A diet constantly supplemented by Ben & Jerry ice cream and tidbits from the dinner table has transformed his formerly slim body into something resembling a white furry barrel. He is hopelessly out of shape. Not on my watch. I resolve to do something about it and this means resuming our daily walks.

Snowy is keen at first and even promises not to stop every few yards to sniff a tree trunk or telegraph pole. We'll see how long this dedication lasts.

"Cameron? Hey, Cameron!"

I don't need to turn around to see who is calling my name. My vocal recognition software flashes the name on my HUD.

_Daniel._

The boy who hit on me and made John jealous.

"Hello, Daniel. Hello, Lulu."

Daniel's dog Lulu and Snowy get reaquainted. This invovles much sniffing of butts. It's a dog thing.

"Man, I haven't seen you in months. I was hoping I'd run into you again."

"You were?"

"Absolutely. Hey - why don't we go the park? It's right nearby. I'll buy ice creams. For the dogs" he adds hastily, "I remember you don't care for the stuff."

"I have a boyfriend," I announce recalling Sarah Connor's advice to be upfront about this. "He fulfils all my sexual requirements."

"Oh. Uh...that's great. It's just the park though. It's not a date or anything."

I confirm it's not a date or anything and with Snowy tugging insistently on his leash elect to accompany Daniel to the park. And the wide open spaces will enable Snowy to run off some excess calories.

"Sure you won't have a lick?"

"Quite sure."

Daniel places two ice cream cones on the ground where Snowy and Lulu avidly consume them. They both have terrible table manners.

"This is nice," Daniel grins, sitting next to me on a bench.

"Really? They eat like pigs."

"What? No, I meant this. The park. The sunshine. The company..." His grin widens. "How've you been?"

"Five by five. You?"

"Can't complain."

Snowy and Lulu finish their ice creams and then begin barking, bringing each other up to speed with recent events.

"Hark at those two yapping. It's almost like they're talking to each other."

"They are. Snowy is telling Lulu about his recent brush with death. He is exaggerating slightly but he was very ill."

"How come?"

I explain about the chlorine in the pool and the near fatal effect it had on Snowy's kidneys.

"Yeah, I read somewhere chlorine's bad for animals. Course, you gotta have a pool first."

"You don't have a pool?"

"I live in a one bedroom walkup. The closest I get to pool living is when the water tank overflows."

I slowly scan the park, automatically checking for danger even though John isn't here to come to any harm. It's a terminator thing. Daniel notices my attention lapsing and asks, "Looking for someone?"

"No."

"Because it kinda seems like you are. Don't let me keep you if-"

"I am wary of undesirables." This seems as much as I can safely divulge.

"Oh. Gotcha. Yeah, you can never be too careful. This park's usually pretty good though. Only averages two murders a day."

"That's good?"

He grins. "Kidding."

"I see. Humor."

"So, see any...undesirables?"

"The man in the blue windcheater has a concealed weapon. Right shoulder holster. A pistol. Make unknown. Judging from his relaxed posture and his evident disinterest with the other people in the park he is most likely an off-duty policeman."

Daniel squints in the direction I am looking. "Man, how can you tell all that at this distance? I can barely see his jacket's blue."

"Practice." I am always forgetting humans lack my optical zoom facility.

"Practice, she says! I'd forgotten how quirky you are."

"Quirky?"

"It's a compliment, believe me."

Snowy notices a trace of ice cream left and makes a further pig of himself by licking the tarmac where some of it melted and ran. Honestly, I can't take him anywhere.

"I work nightshift at a video store on Madison. Did I tell you that before?"

I access the appropriate memory file. "Yes, you mentioned it."

"Listen, anytime you feel like some entertainment drop by. You can use my employee discount. And I'll throw in a free carton of popcorn."

"Netflix and Hulu fulfil our entertainment requirements."

"Netflix is gonna put people like me out of a job."

"Progress is inevitable."

"Progress won't pay the bills."

"No. Cash or credit is normally required."

Daniel laughs. It seems odd he should find the prospect of destitution amusing.

I continue to scan the park. Daniel says, "I think that off-duty cop's gone. Anyone else you don't like the look of?"

"The biker in the black leather jacket. He has abrasions to his face and the knuckles of both hands suggesting he has recently participated in a fight. He's six feet six tall, two hundred and fifty pounds and knows how to handle himself."

"Yeah, I see him. He's a big 't want to meet him on a dark night."

"Or on a bright day. The odds of you besting him in a physical confrontation are less than two percent."

"Meaning he'd beat the shit out of me."

I confirm the likelihood of effluent spillage.

"Bet I could outrun him though. Doesn't seem to me he's the type built for speed."

"Sometimes the best tactic is a speedy retreat."

Daniel nods. "So.. you have a boyfriend, huh?"

"Yes."

"What's his name?"

"John."

"He's one lucky dude, that's for sure."

"He doesn't consider himself lucky. Often he feels fate has been particularly cruel."

"He gets to wake up next to you in the morning. That's makes him pretty damn lucky in my book."

I make no reply. What does this boy know of John's destiny or the fact that he has been targeted for termination since before he was born. And then there is the small matter of being mankind's last and only hope for salvation.

The LED clock in my HUD begins to flash. I make a pretence of checking the time on my wristwatch. I have learnt the hard way that appearances matter. "Time to go."

"Picking your sister up from school again?"

"Correct."

"Well, don't forget my offer. Video store on Madison. Discount and free popcorn."

-0-

On the walk home Snowy enthuses about meeting Lulu.

_snowy like lulu! lulu like snowy!_

"I saw you sucking your gut in."

_snowy bigboned not fat!_

"Please. You're practically spherical."

_snowy exercise. like sarah!_

That'll be the day.

-0-

That evening John overhears Snowy telling Mia about meeting Lulu. He soon realises that where Lulu goes so does Daniel. I am compelled to tell him about the trip to the park.

"That SOB! He hit on you again."

"He did?"

"Come on, all that employee discount and free popcorn stuff. He might as well have waved his wang in your face."

"I saw no wang. What is a wang?"

John is somber for the rest of the evening and turns in early for bed. Few people seem to disturb him as much as Daniel, which is strange since they have never met.

And I still don't know what a wang is.

THURSDAY

Snowy's new fitness regime lasts precisely one day. The time it takes for him to follow Sarah Connor on her daily run and trail back exhausted after four blocks, his four stubby legs no match for her cybernetically enhanced limbs. To cheer himself up Snowy eats an entire bowl of his favourite dog food. This is how he got so round in the first place. The dog has no concept of cause and effect.

That evening, while Mia and Snowy watch cartoons on the TV in the basement and Sarah Connors reads the latest edition of the_ LA Times_, John declares, "Cameron and I are gonna go get some groceries. Shouldn't be long."

Sarah Connor regards him over the top of her newspaper. "A supermarket run this late? I thought we agreed it was wise to avoid the busy times of day."

"We won't be long. It's no big deal."

His mother's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Make sure you open the windows," she answers enigmatically. John's face reddens but he doesn't reply.

-0-

"Do you have a grocery list?" I enquire as we head towards the city in the Suburban.

"Not going to the supermarket. That was just a ruse."

"Where, then?"

"Little detour."

"Oh. I understand." I open the side window and begin to unbutton my jeans.

"Not that kind of detour! Jeez, first mom and now you. Does everyone think I'm a sex maniac?"

The Suburban slows and turns onto Madison. We stop outside a video store.

The video store where Daniel works.

"Is that him?" John asks nodding towards the familiar figure working behind the counter.

"Yes."

"Stay here. I'll be back."

"Will you require assistance disposing of the body?"

A thin smile. "It won't come to that. Probably."

-0-

From this remove, separated from the interior of the video store by a plate glass window and several yards of sidewalk, I will be unable to listen to the conversation via my audio receptors. My hearing is good but not that good. Fortunately there is a solution.

I can read lips.

Inside, John makes a pretence of being interested in the titles on display, biding time until Daniel is finished with a young couple renting a movie. They leave and the two are alone in the store. John approaches the desk. Daniel looks up from the computer console and smiles a greeting.

_"Hi, can I help?"_

_"Maybe. I'm looking for a specific title. Can't see it on the racks."_

_"Well, Empire Video stocks over ten thousand video titles. Chances are it's here somewhere. What's it called?"_

_"Battleship Potemkin."_

_"Ah. Right."_

_"Directed by a guy named Sergei Eisenstein."_

_"Yeah, I know who it's directed by."_

_"So, you have it or not?"_

_"I'm pretty sure not. Silent Russian movies from ninety years ago aren't what you'd call a popular rental."_

_"That's too bad. I hear it's pretty good."_

_"Are you majoring in film and need it for study?"_

_"No. Just looking for an evening's entertainment."_

_"Well, how about Captain America on Blu-Ray? Ordinary joe becomes the saviour of mankind and defeats the bad guys trying to overthrow the planet."_

_"Ye-ah, that's kinda not as cool as it sounds."_

_"Okay, like I said we stock over ten thousand titles so take your pick."_

_"Where's Lulu? You bring her to work or what?"_

_"Uh - she's at my apartment. Do I know you? Have we met?"_

_"Snowy stays home alone only if we leave the TV on. And the light if there's a chance it'll get dark. He's a strange little critter."_

_"Snowy... So that must make you John, Cameron's boyfriend."_

_"And that makes you Daniel, the guy who keeps hitting on her."_

_"In my defence, the first time I didn't know she was involved with anyone."_

_"And the second time?"_

_"Hey, I've done nothing wrong. We talked is all. I'm not looking for trouble."_

_"That never stops trouble looking for you, in my experience. This the free popcorn you told her about? Cool. I'll take two."_

_"Uh - popcorn's five bucks. Ten for the supersize."_

_"Guess it's only free in certain circumstances. Right, Daniel?"_

_"There's a button under this counter. I press it the cops'll be here in five minutes."_

_"Stay away from Cameron. That's all I came here to say."_

_"Does she know you're here?"_

_"This is between you and me. Nothing to do with her."_

_"Oh I think it has at least something to do with her."_

_"Cameron is...special. She didn't realize what you were trying to pull. I do. Stay away. None of it's what you think and you'll wind up getting hurt."_

_"That a threat?"_

_"Let's call it a friendly headsup."_

_"Seems to me if you came all this way to confront me for just chatting to your girlfriend maybe your relationship isn't as solid as you think it is."_

_"Oh it's plenty solid. Believe me. You know, you really should stock Battleship Potemkin. I hear it's a classic."_

John exits the the store and rejoins me in the Suburban. We drive away.

"No body to dispose of?"

Another thin smile. "Another time."

**-0-**

**Not the last we've seen of Daniel. Turns out he's important - much to John's chagrin.**

**Tardy with updates. Not hearing Cameron's voice in my head quite as frequently. Did I just admit that? Nurse, I'll take my meds now!**


	56. Chapter fiftysix

The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

MONDAY

John continues to be frustrated in his search for Rubin Creed's daughter. He exchanges emails with the King Of Nerds, some accusing his majesty of laying a false trail, of essentially stealing the money we gave him for information, a charge the King vehemently denies. John is obviously not afraid of offending royalty, something that would've seen him locked in a tower in previous times when monarchs ruled entire countries. It is unlikely the King's home in Pasadena has a tower, at least one wasn't in evidence when we visited and towers are generally too large to easily keep hidden.

Even Mia has started to notice Snowy's expanding girth and frets this puts him at risk of a heart attack. "He should definitely go on a diet," she announces.

"Easier said than done," John tells her. "He has a crafty way of sniffing out the least bit of food. There must be some bloodhound in his DNA."

"If you two wouldn't leave the cans opened then he'd have less opportunity to eat as much as he does," Sarah Connor remarks. "He jumps up on the counter, sticks his paw inside and scoops the food out."

"It's his party trick!" Mia laughs. "He's so cute when he does that!"

Snowy sits in a corner of the kitchen trying to look innocent and that he doesn't know we are talking about him. He's fooling no one.

"Maybe we should take him to Weight Watchers," Mia suggests. "I think it's some kind of club. Megan's sister goes there when she needs to lose weight."

"This the girl with the bald beaver?" John asks grinning. Mia dissolves into giggles. No one has explained to me why hairless aquatic mammals are amusing. Possibly it has to do with their large tails. Or possibly their habit of building dams.

Predictably Sarah Connor comes up with a practical no-nonsense solution: Snowy's meal portions are to be halved and he is not to be given any tidbits from the dining table.

"But he'll starve!" Mia protests. Snowy barks a vociferous agreement, which is lost on Sarah Connor since she doesn't speak dog.

"He'll hardly starve. And it'll be good for him in the long run. There are old dogs and fat dogs. Very few fat old dogs."

"Can't he have one last bowl of Ben & Jerry's? Please. It's his favourite."

"No."

"Ple-"

"No."

TUESDAY

Part of Snowy's new fitness regime is exercise, which is where I come in. Our walks become a daily event, though John has issued instructions - thinly veiled orders - to avoid the park where we twice encountered Daniel and Lulu. This and his greatly reduced diet tends to make Snowy grumpy.

_snowy paws hurt!_

"You'll live."

_snowy hungry!_

"Suck it up."

_snowy want to see lulu!_

"Perhaps we will," I lie.

After visiting several parks in the Pacific Palisades area today we head towards the coast. Possibly the sea air will take Snowy's mind off food. This is a joke. Nothing takes Snowy's mind off food.

We sit on a bench facing the ocean. The day is overcast and out of season meaning there are few if any people on the beach. The kiosks that sell fast food to the beach crowd are closed and shuttered. From time to time a roller blader passes us on the smooth tarmac walkway separating grass from sand. This is Los Angeles after all. Why walk when you can glide?

Snowy eyes follow the roller bladers and I keep a tight grip on his leash in case he decides to chase them. His desire for a pair of his own fell on Sarah Connor's deaf ears. She pointed out that even if he managed not to break all four legs the sight of a dog rollerblading would likely draw attention. I am reminded of the incident in another park when Snowy rode Mia's skateboard and a man filmed him with the intention of posting the clip on YouTube. Until I intervened and smashed the cellphone underfoot. Good times.

"Cameron? Snowy? Wow, what a coincidence. What are the odds, eh?"

I look round to find Daniel grinning down at me. His words strike a chord. What are the odds of us encountering each other? My calculations are that it is very unlikely. Therefore I have been stalked. Hunted.

Targeting graphics array themselves around Daniel's head. A neck break, I think. Quick. Painless. Quiet.

"Fancy running into you two. Small world, huh?"

"It's about to get even smaller."

Daniel laughs. "Man, I knew I'd never be able to keep a straight face!"

_The third vertebra..._

"We've been searching for you all week."

_Quick. Clean. Painless._

Oblivious to his impending doom, Daniel produces a map from his pocket. He unfolds it. "I made a note of all the parks within a five mile radius of where we first met. I figured if you were still walking Snowy you wouldn't go further than that. That's what I told myself anyway. We've been checking out five a day. Guess today's the jackpot."

"Didn't John warn you about seeing me again?"

"He told you? Well, I wanted to see you again if it was the last thing I did."

_Appropriate..._

"Anyway, here we- Hey, what's this guy doing?"

A grey panel van accelerates towards us, veering off the roadway and crossing the grass on a direct collison course. Daniel grabs my hand in an instinctive reaction to drag me clear. The moment his flesh touches mine his DNA is automatically analysed and my HUD flashes this information.

DANIEL AARON LIEBERMAN

BORN 5/6/1992- DIED 7/7/2026

MAJOR IN THE HUMAN RESISTANCE ARMY

INVENTOR OF THE COLTAN PROXIMITY LANDMINE

ALSO KNOWN AS THE CPL OR THE TIN-CAN OPENER

AWARDED THE MEDAL OF HONOR POSTUMOUSLY

RANKED 9TH FOR IMMEDIATE TERMINATION

UPON ACQUISITION TERMINATE

I resist the sudden overwhelming urge to follow out my preprogrammed orders. How ironic that of my own volition I was within seconds of terminating a member of the Resistance.

_Daniel A. Lieberman. Resistance hero. Dead before he is 40._

While this information floods my HUD, in the real world kinetics rule. The panel van's momentum causes it to crash through the wooden bench, plowing on across the grassed area before impacting a brick wall. The panel van loses this particular battle, shuddering to an abrupt halt, the front cabin crumples amid smashed glass and torn metal.

"Holy shit! Are you okay?"

"Yes."

Daniel climbs to his feet first and approaches the wreck. The drivers' airbag has deployed, obscuring the person behind the wheel. He reaches in and places his hand on the driver's neck, checking for a pulse. "I can't feel anything. Shit, he must've been travelling, like, sixty or something. We'd better-"

The driver's head turns, exposing half a coltan skull. The T-8's pseudo eye is gone and the red LED orb fixes on Daniel. It will be displaying the same information I received.

DANIEL LIEBERMAN

RESISTANCE HERO

TERMINATE ON ACQUISITION

Daniel takes a step back. "Jeez, look at his face. Easy, fella, you've been in an accident. Don't move. I'll call it in."

I grasp him by the hand. "Come with me."

"Wait. I gotta call for an ambulance."

"Come with me if you want to live."

I drag Daniel along with me as the T-8 extricates itself from the wreckage. I use my own cell phone to call home, explaining what has occurred without going into details. Time enough for that later_. I know that area_, John's voice informs me calmly. He doesn't ask needless questions. Shit happens. The why can wait._ Head into the dunes, away from the park. Someone will call in the crash and we can't risk that thing falling into the wrong hands. We'll meet you there. Don't engage it ?_

"Affirmative."

Snowy and Lulu run ahead of us. Snowy is attempting to calm Lulu, who is close to panic. For all his weakness when it comes to food consumption when danger threatens he pulls through. Truly he is a Connor dog.

"Look that guy's face! Shouldn't we do something to help?" Daniel tries to stop. I drag him along.

"No. Keep going."

"Why is he is following us? Do you know him?"

"Better than you can possibly imagine."

The T-8 left leg is damaged, impairing his forward motion. It will be easy to keep ahead and stay there. The danger is the police will arrive soon and catch us up.

"Will you ease up on my wrist. It feels like its in a vice."

I slacken my grip slightly. We are in a dip between dunes, momentarily losing sight of our pursuer.

"How are you so strong? And will you please tell me what's going on."

I stop. Daniel's questions go unanswered. Something is wrong. The T-8 should have reappeared by now.

"What? What is it?" Daniel stares behind and all around. "Where'd he go?"

Where indeed.

"Look, we should go back. Someone's bound to have called the cops by now. You could explain that creep's stalking you and-"

The T-8 appears at the top of the next dune, blocking our progress. A simple flanking manouver. Textbook. I will have to engage after all.

I begin to climb the dune when a shadow envelops the T-8. It turns round only to be struck by the front fender of the Suburban as it is launched into the air by the rise of the land.

John and Sarah Connor have arrived.

The Suburban comes to a halt straddling the dune path. John exits and points at the T-8, flat on its back from the force of impact. "Quickly! You know the drill."

I do indeed. I press the T-8 into the sand while John unsheaths a knife and slashes the base of its neck to get at the chip. As it loosens and comes free of its housing the T-8's resistance ceases. It lies inert and unmoving. The chip flames suddenly in John's hand and he drops it. A later model then, one that cannot be reprogrammed.

"Will someone please tell what the hell is going on?"

John turns, noticing Daniel for the first time. "What's he doing here?"

"He was the target. He is Major Daniel Lieberman, a soldier in the resistance ."

"This jerk? No way."

"Hey, watch who're you calling a jerk. And will someone explain what that thing is."

Sirens sound in the distance. Sarah Connor crosses to the T-8. "We need to leave. Now. Help me with this."

We stow the metal carcass in the trunk. Daniel continues to stare at us. The sirens are louder. Closer.

"We need to go. Now."

"What about him?"

"If he's part of it then he comes with us. But we have to go right now."

John sighs, weary resignation in his voice. "Get in."

"This is insane. You're all crazy," Daniel declares. "Why should I even want to go with you nutjobs?"

"Because it's where Cameron will be."

Daniel climbs aboard.

-0-

Once we are safely home Sarah Connor takes Daniel to one side and begins to talk in a soft but insistent voice. He becomes the latest in an expanding list who now know the truth of what the future holds. At least a version of the truth. Becca. Ramona. Wanda. Mad Ellie. Davie Ginsberg. All know a part if not all of what is to come.

"What happened back there?" John asks.

I explain events from the moment Snowy and I arrived in the park.

"You think the T-8 was hunting him?"

"No. Most likely it was a chance encounter. It recognised me and assumed the person with me was you. Until Daniel touched it feeling for a pulse that was never there to begin with."

"And you got the same reading?"

"Yes. We can detect DNA profiles from the smallest of blood traces."

"Was he bleeding?"

"Evidently."

"And this landmine he's supposed to invent - it's really that important?"

"Before the invention of the coltan proximity mine all landmines killed indiscriminantly. Man. Machine. They would explode whomever trod on them. It most likely saves the lives of thousands while severely disrupting Skynet's surface operations."

"And he's a Major?"

"Yes."

"Did you know him - in the future, I mean?"

"No. He was - what is the expression? - before my time."

Sarah Connor finishes talking to Daniel and he crosses over to us, looking pale and dazed. As well he might. His entire world view has changed forever.

"You okay, man?" John enquires. "You want a beer or something?"

"Uh - sure. A Bud would sure hit the spot about now."

John brings him a bottle of beer. Daniel takes several swallows. "It's all true, isn't it? Nuclear war. Machines disguised as people travelling back in time."

"Yeah, it is," John agrees. "Make a helluva an episode of _Punked_, though."

"Wouldn't have believed it for a second if I hadn't seen that...thing with my own eyes. Human flesh outside a metal carcass."

"I know."

"How long have you known?"

"Pretty much my whole life. Of course,when I was a kid I just thought mom was crazy."

"What changed your mind?"

"One of those came back for me."

"To kill you?"

"Not at first. This one was sent back to protect me."

"Sent back by whom?"

"Me. My future self."

"Oh man, heavy..."

"Yeah. Heavy. Show me your hands."

"Huh? Why?"

"Humor me."

Daniel holds his hands palms up. There is a small cut on his right palm with a trace of dried blood. "How'd you do that?" John asks.

"Uh - this morning. Opening one of Lulu's food cans. Wasn't big enough for a bandaid. Why, what's wrong?"

"It's how it recognised you. Blood analysis. Skynet must have your DNA on file in the future."

"Jeez, that's creepy."

"Yeah."

Daniel turns to me. "Sarah says you're a resistance fighter sent here from the future."

"Yes."

"Do I know you? In the future, I mean."

"No. You die on the seventh of July 2026. I do attend your memorial service," I add helpfully. I catch John staring at me. He shakes his head vigorously. Oops. I think I have divulged too much information. Maybe Daniel won't notice.

"I'm_ dead_?"

He noticed.

"Look, there are many different timelines," John explains. "The fact that you learnt about this stuff now probably means it's a completely different timeline, one where you don't die on that day."

"You can't know that for sure."

"I know there are different timelines, some of which don't exist anymore."

"How do you know that?"

"Because in one timeline I'm dead."

"Oh man..."

Sarah Connor joins us. "You'll stay for dinner," she says, making it sound like an order not a request.

"Uh - okay. Thank you."

"I've got to pick up my step-daughter from school. Her name's Mia. She knows nothing about any of this. And that's the way I'd like it to stay for the time being. She's had enough trauma in her life as it is."

"Of course. I mean, I wouldn't know where to start."

"Good. If she asks, and knowing her she probably will, you're a friend of John's from high school."

"A friend of John's?" Daniel smiles for the first time since the attack. "I think that might be a stretch somehow."

-0-

As it transpires the cover story is hardly needed. Lulu has told Snowy about her owner and Snowy has gossiped to Mia via the iPhone app I invented that translates his barks. This is what happens when your dog is a blabbermouth.

Despite the traumas of the day Daniel is effortlessly charming once Mia arrives home from school, even managing to dislodge a quarter that she had lodged behind her ear. This seems an odd place to store loose change, though John explains it is merely a magic trick. So Daniel is an inventor and a magician. Interesting. I wonder if he knows Harry Potter?

-0-

It is given to few humans to know the exact time and manner of their deaths. The majority, while reluctantly conceding death is inevitable for all living things, prefer to regard it as a distant almost abstract prospect, one to be tacitly ignored for several decades.

Not so Daniel Lieberman.

Now that I have informed him of the date if not the manner of his demise he won't let the subject alone. He goes over it again and again, like a dog gnawing a bone, desperate to glean the slightest morsal of fresh information.

It begins after dinner. With Mia, Snowy and Lulu in the basement den watching cartoons on the bigscreen TV, Daniel goes outside on to the terrace. It is dark now and the swimming pool has its underwater lights on, illuminating the night like a turquoise jewel. Without looking round he senses me come up beside him and says, "So this is the famous pool where Snowy got sick. Hard to believe something so tranquil could harm you."

"Chlorine is invisible but no less deadly for that," I reply.

"July seventh 's the day I die, right?"

"Yes."

"How? Do I die in battle?"

"I don't know."

"Does one of those things catch me?"

"I don't know."

"Tell me. I can take it."

"I would if I knew but I don't."

"Maybe I'm working on one of those landmines and it blows up in my face?"

"Unlikely. The manufacture is safe enough to entrust to women and children, freeing the men for frontline duties."

"You've seen these landmines I'm supposed to invent?"

I hesitate. I have seen them but always from a safe distance. A distance I am careful to maintain since my kind is their intended target. "Yes," I concede.

"You hesitated. What aren't you telling me?"

"It is not my area of expertise."

"Then how the hell is it mine? I'm a computer science major, for crying out loud. And I'm scraping my grades as it is."

"The war changes things. People find they are capable of deeds they never imagined possible."

"Like John becoming a General? Because I've never seen a less likely General. He's younger than me."

John chooses this moment to join us. "What are you two whispering about?" he asks suspiciously.

Daniel offers a michievious grin. "Cameron's trying to talk me in to joining her for a skinny dip. I said maybe later."

This lie is so preposterous I don't bother to deny it. John shakes his head, not taken in. "Nice try. I'm betting it had something to do with a certain date. Am I right?"

This wipes the smile off Daniel's face. He stares out at the pool. The glow from the underwater lights reveal the strain on his face. "Yeah, well, so what? Not everyone gets to know when they croak."

"Didn't mom give you the future's not set speech?"

"Yeah. Still...surely if you succeeded in changing the present then Cameron wouldn't be here. And that thing wouldn't have tried to kill me."

"We don't think that's how it works."

"Yeah? Then how come if this Skynet can travel back in time they don't send a whole army here and take over the world that way."

I field this question. "Time travel is energy intensive," I explain. "And Skynet have left it too late when the war is almost lost. It is a last resort. A final throw of the mice."

"Dice," John and Daniel say simultaneously. "It's called the last throw of the dice," John explains.

"Dice. Yes, that makes more sense."

"She's quirky as hell, isn't she?" Daniel grins.

"You have no idea," John says putting his arm round my waist and kissing the top of my head.

"Are all the girls all like you in the future?"

"Not so much."

Sarah Connor joins us. "You'll stay overnight. I've prepped a bed." Again more a command than a request.

"Uh - sure. Thanks."

"I know this is difficult to comprehend."

"Just a tad."

"You can still walk away. If you take a few simple precautions, stay off the grid as much as possible, chances are you can live a normal life. You don't have to be part of this."

"Bury my head in the sand, you mean?"

"You have options, that's all. No one's judging you."

"And if I turn my back - who invents this landmine? It matters, apparently. Hell, maybe I matter." Daniel stares down at the pool. He seems to come to a decision. "I grew up in the Valley. Ordinary childhood. Did good at school. Top of the class. Big fish in a little pool, I guess. Now I'm at UCLA and it's a struggle just to stay in the top ten percentile. I've realized I'm unlikely to be the next Bill Gates. When I graduate if I'm lucky I'll land a low level programming gig for some software company. That's if those jobs haven't been outsourced to China by then. No. This is way bigger than that. I'm in, guys. Sign me up to fight the good fight."

Sarah Connor places a hand on Daniel's shoulder. "If you're sure..."

"I'm sure."

"Good. We can help you with certain aspects. Have you ever fired a gun?"

"Nope. Never."

"Cameron can take you to the desert and teach you."

"Awesome."

"Mom, I can do that," John insists.

"No. I think it's best the two of you aren't around each other with weapons."

"Mom!"

"Cameron can handle it. It's not a vacation; he'll be there to learn."

"I will ride him hard," I confirm.

"Can't wait!" Daniel has a broad smile on his face. It is good he is so keen to start learning.

John has a sudden coughing fit. Oh dear, I hope he isn't coming down with a cold.

**-0-**

**In T3 the TX detects John Connor from blood splatter. Not sure how Skynet obtains Daniel's DNA - penal colony maybe?**

**Thanks for supporting this fanfic. There are times I flatter myself I'm keeping the flame alive. Then again possibly just flogging a dead horse...**


	57. Chapter fiftyseven

**The Secret Dairy of Cameron Baum **

**WEDNESDAY**

Change has arrived in Daniel Lieberman's life.

We have arrived in Daniel Lieberman's life.

One of the first changes is finding him a new place to live. Sarah Connor is appalled by easily it is to track him down. Simply a matter of looking up his surname in the telephone listings. And then there is the small matter of his cell.

"You have an iPhone, I presume?"

"My pride and joy."

"Ditch it."

"What? It's the latest model."

"It's registered in your name?"

"Of course."

"Ditch it. Use a prepaid disposable."

Daniel demurs though he doesn't seem pleased. Is his cell phone more valuable to him than his life? I could hack the iTunes database in seconds. And if I can so could others like me.

We arrive at a four storey building in Burbank. Several apartments are available to rent.

There is however a snag.

"The rent's almost double what I'm paying now," Daniel laments. "I'm sorry, Sarah, this place is ideal but there's no way my budget will stretch. I'm working all the hours I can as it is."

"I'll have a word with the landlord. He's got a lot of empty units here. I'm sure he'd accept a reasonable offer."

"You really think she can swing it for me?" Daniel asks John once Sarah Connor has departed.

"I wouldn't put it past her. Mom can be pretty persuasive when she puts her mind to it."

"Yeah, your mom's something else. Is she seeing anyone?"

"Why - you gonna hit on her too?"

"No! God, no. I just thought...ah, forget it."

John considers fort a moment then says softly, "She's lived with this longer than anyone. It's kinda hard to keep to a dating schedule when you're trying to save the world."

"I guess so. Hey - how come in the future you're in charge and not her?"

John's jaw hardens and he looks away without replying. Daniel picks up on it immediately. "Oh. Right. Man, I'm sorry. I didn't mean-"

"Forget it."

There is silence until Sarah Connor returns.

"It's yours for what you're paying now."

"Really? That's amazing, Sarah. Thank you. How did you manage that?"

"Jeff - that's your landlord - is under the impression I'm your mother and that if you're a tenant I'll be a frequent visitor. Hope that doesn't mess things up with your real mom."

"More chance Santa will slip down the chimney. Mom never leaves Florida. Finds California too chilly. I think she was a lizard in a previous life."

Daniel moves further into the apartment. He seems pleased. "South aspect. And a balcony. Lulu and I can sunbathe. And grow weed. Kidding!" he laughs at Sarah Connor's stern expression.

"Glad to hear it."

She crosses to the balcony. "Good. I want you to practise jumping from here."

"Uh - jumping? It's a thirty foot drop."

"More like twenty five. And if you hang from the base of the railings more like seventeen."

"If this is about me growing weed, I really was joking."

"Look, if one of those things does manage to track you down the balcony's your only means of escape. You can't reason or plead with them. They don't do mercy. You'll practise jumping until it's second nature. Day and night."

"Okay. Point taken."

"We'll reinforce the door to buy you a little more time. We can't do too much or the other tenants will think you're a drug dealer."

"You really think one of them is gonna show up here?"

"Doesn't hurt to be prepared. I'll go see if Jeff has the lease contract ready to sign. Use your middle name - Adam, is it?"

"Aaron. After my grandfather."

"Right. As much as possible we need to keep Daniel Lieberman off the grid."

"Feels like I'm disappearing already," Daniel grins.

When his mother leaves John crosses to the balcony and looks down. Below is a narrow flagged passageway leading from the front of the building to the back. There is a rear gate beside several plastic dumpsters, all full off the kind of trash humans buy and then throw away.

"This isn't so high. I could do this easy."

"Oh yeah? Care to demonstrate - _General?"_

"Watch and learn - _Major."_

John hooks his leg over the railing. I grasp his arm. "No."

"It's okay. I can do this," he whispers.

I evaluate the drop. Twenty-three feet. If he hangs by his fingers as Sarah Connor suggested the fall will be seventeen feet. I decide this is within the survivable range and release my grip. Daniel notices nothing.

"Okay. One. Two. Three..."

John lands heavily but safely. He grins up at us. "Nothing to it. Your turn."

"What?" Daniel shakes his head. "No way."

"What's the matter - chicken?"

Daniel glances over at me and sighs. He climbs over the railing and gingerly lowers himself into position. He seems to hang there for a long time.

"The trick is to let go," John suggests helpfully.

"No, the trick is not to break my freaking neck!"

He lets go, hits the ground hard and at a slight angle, sprawling over on his back.

John hastens to help. "You okay, man?"

"Don't touch me. I'm fine."

He climbs to his feet just as Sarah Connor reappears on the balcony. She looks down at the scene below and then over at me. She seems to understand what has happened and why. "Boys," she whispers quietly. "Why don't they just compare dicks?"

I do not know what this means.

-0-

It requires a mere two journeys to transfer Daniel's belongings from his old apartment to the new. Jeff the landlord watches us come and go. He is a man in late middle age, very overweight and with little hair on his head. Despite these physical shortcomings Sarah Connor smiles and acts pleasantly around him. I had no idea she was a chubby chaser.

"Just put the boxes anywhere," Daniel instructs us. "I'll unpack later."

I place two framed posters against a wall. One depicts a female tennis player who appears to have forgotten to put on underwear. This is easily done. In fact I do it all the time, despite not playing tennis. It seems an odd picture to want to hang on a wall. Who would possibly want to stare at a bare female posterior day after day? The other is of a long haired bearded man below the caption:

THE BIG LEBOWSKI

"What is a Lebowski?" I ask.

"That's the Dude," Daniel explains.

"The Dude abides," John adds.

"Abides what?"

"He just abides."

Helpful much? Not really. I add LEBOWSKI, BIG to an internal folder I have tabbed UNEXPLAINED THINGS. Right next to KARDASHIAN, KIM and LOST, THE PLOT OF.

-0-

**THURSDAY**

John, Snowy and I drive over to Daniel's new apartment. With us we have the tools and equipment needed to reinforce the door. And a tall ficus tree growing in a ceramic pot. The ficus tree is part of the cover story to explain our presence should we meet Jeff the landlord. A housewarming gift for our friend. What could be more normal?

"Well, that's fifty bucks wasted," John remarks after we arrive. We meet no one. The corridors are empty. Music plays faintly in a distant apartment. I boost my audio receptors and recognise Lana Del Rey lamenting she is_ Born To Die_. Aren't we all. Get over it, sister.

We let ourselves in with a duplicate key. Only Lulu is home since Daniel is at college all day. Lulu leads Snowy into the kitchen where she proudly shows him her new dinner bowl. Snowy is very impressed. He always is where food is involved.

Reinforcing the doorframe takes up most of the morning. We are careful to keep the noise to a minimum. Terminating nosy tenants might well breach the lease agreement. Finally, John steps back and wipes the perspiration from his brow. "That'll have to do. Can't do too much or people are gonna wonder what he has to hide. How long will it keep one of them out?"

I examine our handiwork. "Approximately thirty-eight seconds."

"That all? It's a headstart at least - if he keeps his wits about him. And he seems to be making an effort, I'll give him that. Mom said he's changed his major from computer science to physics."

"And he turned down a RIM job."

"Well, that's-wait. He's done _- what?"_

"Turned down a RIM job. He was looking forward to it very much."

"My God! You actually suggested...wait. When you say rim you mean Research In Motion, the Blackberry makers?"

"Yes. The company offered him an internship which he turned down. Why, what did you think I meant?"

"I -uh - doesn't matter. Come on, let's go."

"What shall we do with the ficus tree?"

"Leave it here. I'm not lugging it all the way home."

I place the ficus tree on the balcony where it will receive the maximum amount of light. There are other plants here that Daniel has presumably purchased. A tomato vine. An agave with cream striped leaves. And two red flowered geraniums. No sign of any weed, the common name for _cannabis sativa_. Sarah Connor will be pleased.

Also on the balcony is a metal table and chair. On the chair is a book. _Harry Potter and The Half-Blood Prince_. I point to it and tell John, "Professor Snape is the Half-Blood Prince."

"You've read it?"

"I had a spare ten seconds."

"A spare ten seconds! Don't let Daniel hear you say that he thinks you're quirky enough already."

"Quirky is a compliment, yes?"

"I suppose so. Where's that dog got to?"

We find Snowy in the bedroom. He and Lulu are curled up asleep on the floor, their paws almost touching. Snowy is grumpy as we wake him up. He hates to woken for anything other than mealtimes. "Look at this place," John comments. "The lazy sack hasn't unpacked since he got here."

I look around and find this is indeed the case. The cardboard boxes we carried up haven't been unpacked yet, though the framed poster of the Big Lebowski now hangs from a hook on the wall. The Dude, abiding. Whatever that means.

We are about to leave when John spots something on a table beside the bed. An 8x6 glossy photograph. He picks it up and stares at it for a long moment. His jaw flexes in the manner I have come to understand means he is upset. He turns the photograph to show me. "When did he take this?"

The picture is of me, captured in profile. "I don't know," I admit.

"That looks like a park in the background. Trees and stuff. It's from a cell phone. Probably the second time you met."

He stares at it a little while longer then replaces it on the side table, beside a box of opened Kleenex tissues. There are several used ones in a waste bin by the bed. Possibly Daniel has a cold.

On the way out of the apartment John slams the door harder than necessary. I don't know why.

**FRIDAY**

This morning we receive a phone call from the school. Mia has injured herself playing lacrosse and has been taken to a local hospital for treatment.

"Lacrosse. Who plays lacrosse these days?" John grumbles as we drive across town. "I thought that went out with Henry the Eighth or something."

"It's a private school," Sarah Connor replies. "They do things differently. It's all in the prospectus."

"Which you read?"

A smirk. "Naturally."

"Seemes damned un-American to me. They'll be teaching her cricket next."

"What is cricket?" I ask.

"A fruity sport the english play. Games last for five days and still end in a draw!"

"No penalty shootout?"

"That's only in soccer."

Snowy has to be left in the vehicle since the hospital has a strict no pets rule. Typically he whines like a baby. "Don't worry, fella. We'll bring her right down," John assures him.

We find Mia in the childrens ward, sat up in bed still wearing her sports kit. A male doctor is attending her. He is tall with thick dark hair and tanned features. I notice Sarah Connor quickly smarten her hair with her hands before the doctor turns round and sees us. Is she attracted to this man? It appears so. Apparently her chubby chasing phase is over. Poor Jeff the landlord.

"Hi. I'm Mia's stepmother," she introduces herself.

"Pleased to meet you. I'm Doctor Hank."

"First name?"

"I wish. Blame my parents, I'm afraid." He grins revealing near perfect teeth. Sarah Connor smiles back. It is an odd look on her. A scowl suits her better.

"I broke my finger!" Mia blurts out and giggles.

"It's a clean fracture which I've set and put in a splint," Doctor Hank explains. "Should heal naturally in a few weeks."

"I broke my finger!" Mia blurts out and giggles again.

"Is she okay?"

"I gave her a mild sedative. She was a little distressed when she arrived."

"Jennifer Minter doesn't wear underpants!" Mia blurts out. More giggles. "She lets all the boys see her-"

"Yes, thank you, Mia," Sarah Connor interrupts hastily. "I'm sure Doctor Hank doesn't want to hear about Jennifer Minter."

"Oh I don't know, she sounds like quite a character," Doctor Hank grins. "And please, call me Frank."

"Frank Hank? Oh dear..."

They laugh at this. John and I exchange glances. She's got it bad.

"Where's Snowy? Didn't he come and see me?"

"Snowy?"

"Her pet dog."

"Snowy's not just a pet. He can talk and everything. And I can understand him!"

"Hmm, a little too much sedative, I think."

-0-

Mia falls asleep on the drive home and John carries her up to her room and lays her gently on the bed. She sleeps for three hours then wakes up hungry and thirsty. John fixes her mac and cheese and a hot chocolate drink. Snowy watches enviously as she consumes these. His dinner is long past and he is not due another meal for several hours. His agony is palpable.

"You feel well enough to tell us what happened?" John asks.

"It was Emma Van Buren! She whacked me with her lacrosse stick when the teacher wasn't looking!."

"Okay. Did you do anything to provoke her?"

Mia looks away, not meeting his eyes. It is an obvious 'tell'. "No," she lies unconvincingly.

"Mia, the truth..."

"I might have trod on her foot."

"Before she hit you?"

"Uh huh."

"And you did it on purpose?"

"She's always mean to me! She's been telling everyone the school has a bad smell and it's only since I arrived."

"So you trod on her foot."

"And she broke my finger! That's way worse."

"She lashed out. She probably didn't MEAN that to happen."

"You're on her side!"

"Do you like your school?" Sarah Connor asks.

"I guess."

"And you have friends you wouldn't want to leave behind?"

"There's Megan and a few other girls I like. Why? We're not moving, are we?"

"We might have no choice if you get yourself expelled. You're still on probation for hitting that boy."

"So I can't defend myself?"

"Babe, you started it," John points out not unkindly. "Look, every school has an Emma Van Buren, you've just got to ignore them. And you remember what I told you? If you can't be good-"

"-don't get caught."

"Right."

"How am I gonna shower without getting this bandage wet?"

"I'll put some saranwrap round it. You'll be fine," Sarah Connor assures her.

"Will I have to go back to the hospital?"

"In a few weeks. Just to check everything's okay."

"Will I see the same Doctor?"

"Presumably."

"Cool! He was really handsome!"

"That seems to be a popular opinion," John remarks glancing at his mother who doesn't reply.

"I wonder if he's married?"

I retrieve the appropriate memory. "No. He wasn't wearing a wedding ring."

John rolls his eyes. "Oh not you too!"

**TUESDAY**

Daniel and I are in the desert, far from the highway and prying eyes. This is his first lesson in firearms, the use of. Or as John put it, Guns 101. He is proving a reasonably adept learner. From never having handling a weapon he can now load and fire a Glock nine millimeter pistol. Accuracy, however, is still elusive.

"Widen your stance slightly," I suggest as several rounds shred an innocent segoura cactus and not the intended target.

"Like this?"

"Yes. Both hands on the pistol as I demonstrated."

After four hours in the desert heat Daniel has sweated through his tee shirt. I am bone dry. Naturally. Perspiration. Who needs it?

"Too bad we couldn't bring the dogs."

"Yes. Too bad."

The dogs are back at the safe house. Lulu is easily spooked by loud noises and Snowy has developed a phobia about the desert since encountering a lizard during his last visit and fears he might be eaten. Given his size it would require a very hungry lizard to devour him.

"You know, I'm starting to get into this," Daniel states. "Maybe I'll buy a legit pistol and join a range."

"For that you will need ID."

"I have ID."

"It will put you back on the grid."

"Oh. Right. Didn't think of that. Not a good idea then."

"And a range isn't good preparation."

"How come?"

"Paper targets don't shoot back."

Daniel absorbs this uncomfortable truth so I add, "Next lesson I will teach you how to shoot moving targets and how to avoid being shot at. Skynet can triangulate you position by muzzleflash or the mere sound of gunfire. They can then call in HK support."

"HK?"

"HunterKiller. A type of airborne gunship."

He swallows hard. "Man, I have a lot to learn!"

"And I am here to teach you."

"Can I ask a question?"

"You have already done so but go ahead."

"Do I have anyone in the future? A wife or kids?"

"I don't know."

"Well, do you remember seeing a grieving widow at my funeral?"

"I am present at your memorial ceremony not your funeral."

"They're not the same thing?"

"The ceremony is much later. You are not the only hero to receive the Medal of Honor."

"Any of the others posthumous?"

"All of them. Promotions for the living are carried out in the field with the minimum of fuss. John prefers it that way. And it is better for morale."

"Okay, so do you remember seeing a grieving widow there?"

I retrieve the appropriate memory file and scan its contents.

_hastily erected bleachers...rows of soldiers...khaki uniforms against a blue sky...a large stars and stripes flag in front of a raised dais...a lectern...john...general connor...in full dress uniform, handwritten notes in his pocket...the speech prepared, agonised over...he hates these occasions and what they represent...yet he will speak for the fallen...honor their passing, their contribution to the cause...daniel's eulogy...no mention of a wife, family or that the two met before judgement day...proof of a divergent timeline?..or is john aware of my presence and doesn't wish to influence my actions when daniel and i first meet walking our dogs in pre-war los angeles?...there is no way of telling...the ceremony ends...the bleachers empty...the vivid hues of sunset...all that dust still suspended in the upper atmosphere...john lingers, jacket off, collar undone and tie askew...he notices me noticing him and profers a wan smile, a thumbs up...i return the gesture and make to join him just as derek reece intrudes, whispering urgently in his commander's ear...reece has practically begged to be allowed to return to the past via the captured technology...in a few days his wish will be granted...he and his comrades and a small fortune in diamonds will be sent back...the men will all be dead within a year...the diamonds will fund the connor lifestyle for several years after that...this is a time of returns...the reprogrammed t-800 has already been sent to protect the teenage john, one day to be known affectionately as uncle bob...would they have been lovers if john was gay?...it is a thought too horrid to contemplate...in a few weeks i will be sent back...further than reece or the t-800...all the way to 1969...woodstock...dancing with flowers in my hair and the mud of yasgur's farm sticking to my bare feet...this is also a time of loss...it will be many decades before we meet again...i will miss john's calm authority...his way of treating me as a woman and not a counterfeit...the days will seem long without him...the nights even longer..._

"Cameron, are you okay?"

With a jolt I return my attention to the present, the memories fading as quckly as they were summoned. The desert. The unrelenting sun yet to be dulled by atmospheric dust. Daniel stares at me with concern on his face. "I'm fine," I assure him.

"Sure? Hey - are you crying?"

I raise my hand up to my face. Sure enough my left optical sensor is leaking lubricant. I wipe it away. Odd. My diagnostic sensor doesn't indicate a malfunction. Possibly my diagnostic needs a diagnostic.

"You had someone in the future, didn't you?" Daniel surmises with surprising accuracy. "Someone you were forced to leave behind when you came back."

"Yes," I hear myself admitting.

"And I made you remember. Man, I'm sorry. It must be a painful memory."

"We need to get back to work. Have you reloaded the Glock?"

Daniel shakes his head. "I think that's enough for now. Let's call it a day. It's a long drive back."

I am surprised by the authority in his voice. Previously he has been compliant and eager to please. Then again this man will one day be awarded the highest honor his country can bestow. And he is a Major in the Resistance. John doesn't promote idiots. Or lickspittles.

**-0-**

We load up Daniels's car - a Toyota coupe several years past its prime. The a/c often malfunctions and it lacks four wheel drive. This is about to become a problem...

"Hope we beat the traffic. Got an early shift at the video store."

Daniel starts the engine. The rear wheels spin in the loose desert soil. He makes the rudimentary error of believing more throttle is the remedy. This is a mistake. The rear wheels spin even faster, sending out fantails of sand and shale. Soon we are buried up to the rear axle.

"Shit! Look at the wheels. Man, that was stupid."

I agree it was very stupid.

"Should I call Sarah? Looks like we're gonna need a tow."

"Not neccesary. Please reengage drive." I exit the vehicle and stand behind the trunk.

"A push? Are you kidding? No way you'll budge us. This happened to me at the beach one time. Took a five hundred dollar towing fee to get me out."

"A tow will not be required. Please engage drive."

Daniel accedes to my wishes though I sense he lacks confidence in my ability. Oh ye of little faith. I push. The Toyota leaps out of its self-dug trenches. Nothing to it. Piece of peas. Do I mean peas? I will verify later. Five hundred dollars for a tow? I am obviously in the wrong business.

The Toyota slowy heads for the highway, Daniel at least having the good sense to keep the revs low and not stop for me and risk being bogged down again. I follow in its wake, guided by the tracks being left behind. The sun is low and casts my shadow ahead of me. I seem about eight feet tall. I wish...

**-0-**

Daniel is unusually quiet on the journey back. On the way here he was extremely loquacious, talking about verything and anything. I mostly listened. And learnt. I discovered that the Big Lebowski is a character in a movie of the same name. The Dude. Also known as the dudester, his dudeness or el duderino. It is Daniel's favourite movie and he is able to quote whole passages of dialogue verbatim._ Sometimes you eat the be-ar and sometimes the be-ar eats you_._ This isn't 'Nam. This is bowling_. _There are rules_. I also learn that his favourite actress is Jessica Biel whom he spotted once emerging from a gym in Westwood, looking unbelievably smoking hot in leotard and leggings, yet he was too chickenshit to approach her and introduce himself. He also spoke of his dog Lulu with a warmth that is absent when he speaks of his mother, who appears to be a distant figure in his life. He found Lulu in an animal shelter, a place he drove past several times a week for months without a desire to stop when some impulse compelled him to do so. Lulu was an abandoned puppy, a small whimpering ball of fur huddled in the corner of a steel cage all alone in the world. They have been together ever since. It is a love story. Of sorts.

We leave the freeway and enter the suburbs. Clouds are building overhead and rain is forecast later. The rain will temporarily clear the smog from the atmosphere and wash the particulate dust from the streets and buildings giving the city a patina of cleanliness. This is illusory. Los Angeles is home to many millions of inhabitants. Little here stays clean for very long.

Three blocks from the safehouse Daniel steers the Toyota to a halt. "Wrong street," I point out.

"I want to say something first."

What does he wish to say, I wonder? Possibly he wants me to commiserate with him for giving up a RIM job. These are highly coveted apparently.

Daniel sits completely still. He has an anquished look on his face. I have seen this look before. Snowy had the same look when he was constipated recently. Is Daniel suffering the same malady? If so I will advise laxatives, though not in the same high dosage I gave Snowy. I have learned this leads to a whole new set of problems. Very messy problems.

"How did you know I was a Major in the future?" Daniel says finally. "I'm pretty sure I never told you my surname. And I'm damn sure I never told you my birthdate. And you said yourself we never met."

Intelligence is a double-edged sword. It causes people to think. Too much thinking can be bad. How bad I am about to find out.

"John said that thing knew who I was because of the cut on my hand and having my DNA on record," Daniel continues. His hands flex on the steering wheel, a symptom of stress he shares with John who has the same habit. "I grabbed your hand to protect you when that van came towards us. And that's another thing. You pulled me along like I was nothing. I'm the first to admit I'll never make linebacker for the Chicago Bears, but I'm six inches taller than you and fifty pounds heavier. Yet you dragged me along like I was a ragdoll. And back there. We were buried up to the axles yet-"

A woman pushing a baby in a stroller passes by on the sidewalk. Daniel goes silent as if fearing we might be overheard. The woman pays us no heed and when she has gone he continues.

"Sarah told me some of those things-"

"They have a name," I interject. "Terminators. Saying it will not endanger you."

"Okay. Terminators can be reprogrammed, to be on our side."

"Earlier models, yes. The more modern versions have chips that self-destruct."

"Do you?"

There. It is out in the open. He has figured it out. "No," I tell him. "I am an older model. My chip won't self-combust. I wouldn't be here if it did."

Daniel nods, his hands flex and relax and flex again, gripping the steering wheel as if it is silly putty. Finally he turns to face me. His eyes meet mine and he doesn't look away. "You know, you being a terminator isn't even the weirdest part."

"Then what is?"

"That I worked it out and you've just admitted it and...and..."

"And?" I prompt.

"And I'm still in love with you."

**-0-**

**I really should write a**_** Big Lebowski **_**fanfic. It's outrageous that such a great movie has just one fanfic to its name. **

**FYI, Snowy and Lulu are terriers. Not sure I mention that. As a breed they're prone to becoming barrel-like if overfed. Then you end up carrying the tubby little bugger everywhere.**


	58. Chapter fiftyeight

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

WEDNESDAY

My instructions are brief and precise. "You have a forty-five second headstart. After that I will hunt you down and shoot you."

Daniel offers a nervous smile. The sun reflects off his sunglasses hiding his eyes. We are in the desert. This is his second lesson on firearms tactics. So far he has proved a fast learner. Good. He will need to be.

"You're really gonna shoot me?"

"My Glock is loaded with a clip of rubber bullets. If you are hit it will not be a fatal wound. However I understand it can hurt like a sonofabitch."

The Toyota is a quarter mile away. Daniel's mission is reach it and toot the horn before I catch him. It will be a practical demonstration of what he will face in the future. Minus the agonising death, of course. And the tooting.

"Can I shoot back?"

"If you wish. Although small caliber ammo will have little or no effect on me. And it certainly won't slow me down."

"Couldn't we just play tag?"

"No. This is not a game. Your forty-five seconds begins...now."

I turn my back. The seconds tick down in my HUD. Precisely on forty-five seconds I turn around. There is no sign of Daniel. I had half-expected him to simply run hell for leather towards the distant Toyota, making him an easy takedown. This is not the case. The game is afoot, as Sherlock Holmes would say. If he was real.

I activate my infra-red sensor. Instantly my HUD is a whiteout. Even with filters set to max I cannot detect human body warmth above the background desert heat. If this was night it would be a different matter. He would be a sitting duck.

There are footprints in the sand. I compare them. Three sizes larger than mine. Daniel's. I follow them, Glock held in front of me. I have zero qualms about using it. Pain is a valuable learning tool.

The footprints end at a rocky outcrop. I stop and scan the surroundings. There plenty of hiding places: large rocks, mesquite bushes, Joshua trees and the everpresent segoura cacti that are dotted around like spiky sentinels. Any and all will provide a possible hiding place. Not for long. I will search them all if necessary. I am patient, methodical, deadly. And I look totally rad in my mirrored aviators.

Movement to my left. I bring the Glock to bear and fire a short burst. A cactus shredded, its spiny skin crumbles leaking moisture it has probably taken decades to store. No cries of pain as there surely would be if I had struck human flesh. A lizard possibly. Or a small snake unhappy that their domain has suddenly been invaded by interlopers.

I circle around, slowing heading towards the Toyota, inspecting each possible hiding place as I go. The rocky outcrop ends. I see no tracks. Then, a voice, in some agony.

_"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."_

A list of snakes indiginous to the area pops up in my HUD. If it is a rattlesnake bite then he will indeed require medical treatment. And fast.

_"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."_

I holster my weapon and head towards a large boulder from whence Daniel's pleading voice emanates.

_"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."_

"I heard you the first time. Please remain calm."

I reach the boulder. No Daniel. Instead his disposable cell phone lies on the ground. I pick it up.

_"Cameron, a snake bit me. My leg's swelling up. Think I need a hospital."_

It is a recording. Set to playback on a simple loop. I turn it off. Subterfuge. A diversion.

I look round in time to see Daniel sprinting for the Toyota. He has a hundred yards on me. I unholster my Glock and bring it to bear as I start to run after him. Targeting graphics attempt to find a lock. This proves difficult. The terrain is uneven, Daniel is running between bushes and cacti all of which throw off my aim. I fire twice. Both land short. I readjust. High. He is now just fifty yards shy of the Toyota. I am closing the gap but not quickly enough. Two more shots. I am almost sure the second struck him though he doesn't break stride. A dive behind the trunk. A dust cloud rises. The side door opens. Too late, too late...

_PARPPPPPPPPPPPP!_

The horn sounds. I reholster my pistol. I have lost. He has won. It is time to be gracious in defeat. "Congratulations. You have completed your mission successfully."

His head pops up and down again. "Promise you won't shoot if I come out?"

"Of course." I resist the temptation to be a sore loser and put a round in his butt.

"Pretty tricky, huh?"

"Pretty tricky," I agree. "Though in the future this ruse would have zero probablity of succeeding. A hostile terminator would ignore your distress."

"This isn't the future. And I'm pretty sure Sarah told you not to let me be harmed. I figured the prospect of me dying from a snakebite would be enough for you to lower your guard."

Daniel stands beside the Toyota, grinning from ear to ear. "Man, that last shot was close! I actually felt it fly pass my head. You really took this seriously, didn't you?"

"There would be no point otherwise."

"I think my heartrate's like six hundred a minute!"

I grasp his wrist, sensors go to work. "More like one-sixty. High but within safe parameters for a human of your age and health."

"Feel it. Like a triphammer, huh?"

He places my left palm against his chest. Some last vestige of my original promgramming suggests ripping it out and stomping it into the dust. It appears I am a sore loser. I quell the impulse then try and lift my hand away. Daniel holds it there. We are physically close, just inches apart. Close enough for him to lean over and place his lips against mine. Kiss me, in other words.

"Why did you do that?" I ask curious.

A shrug. "I don't know. I wanted to. Call it my reward for beating you."

"Your reward is a successful mission and the implementation of field tactics that might one day save your life."

"I figured out who you were upset about leaving behind. It's him, isn't it? John."

"Yes."

"So the middle-aged version sends you back so his younger self can have some fun. Talk about officer perks."

"It is not like that. We did not hook up immediately. It required several years. John had other fish to fly."

"Fry. Other fish to fry. And you mean other girls?"

"Yes."

"That idiot. He doesn't deserve you."

"And you do?"

Daniel looks away. "And you never answered my question."

"What question?"

"Do I have anyone in the future?"

"I don't know," I lie.

Daniel nods. He stares beyond me, at the seemingly endless desert landscape. "You know, I'm lived in LA all my life yet this is the first time I've ever really visited the desert. It's beautiful here."

"It has a primitve charm," I concede.

Daniel's cheerfulness persists during the journey home, his andrenalin rush showing no sign of abating. I add to his amusement by quoting large chunks of dialogue from_ The Big Lebowsk_i, a movie I have now had the opportunity to view. My recall is more thorough than his and comes with the added advantage of perfect mimicry.

"Oh man, your Walter is amazing! You should come with me to the next Lebowski fest."

"What is a Lebowski fest?"

"It's an event where people get together who really love the movie. The last one was in san diego. Some even dress up as their favourite characters. I generally go as Jesus. You could go as Maude. No - as Bunny!"

"Bunny doesn't wear very much," I point out as I instantly recall her scenes in the movie.

A wolfish grin. "I know."

-0-

Mia's broken finger finally heals, the self-repair system all humans possess slowly gets the job done. All that remains is a return trip to the hospital for a check up and to have the splint removed. This involves a second meeting with Doctor Hank, or Doctor Hunk as John has begun referring to him. Sarah Connor takes Mia and Snowy leaving John and I with the house to ourselves. This allows us some one on one time. Or should it be one on top of one time? By the time they return our clothes are back on and no one suspects a thing - except Snowy who sniffs around me suspiciously. That dog can smell nookie at a thousand paces.

"Look - my splint's off!" Mia announces waving her finger in the air. "It's all mended. I can bend it and everything."

"Did you see Doctor Hunk?" John asks.

"Yeah! he said I was very brave. And he gave Sarah his phone number!"

"Really... Home or cell?"

"Home, I think."

John grins at his mother who stares back at him unabashed. "Well, can't hurt to have a doctor on call."

"Go and put your uniform on," Sarah Connor tells Mia. "I'll drive you back to school."

"What? Can't I have the day off?"

"You said yourself your finger's healed. And you have a whole afternoon's worth of lessons."

"But it's math! I hate math!"

"If you're good I'll drive slowly."

"Really?"

"No."

"Aargh!_ Te odio! Te odio!"_

_"Me lo agradecerás un día."_

Sarah Connor returns in two hours. "I had a little chat with the Principal. Seeems Mia has quite a little feud going with this Van Buren girl."

"I hope you told him it's not always Mia's fault?"

"Of course. I got the usual lecture about discipline beginning at home. And apparently this girl's family are valued benefactors of the school. His words."

"Meaning they're loaded and the school can always count on a donation when they need a new library wing."

"And she'll get the benefit of the doubt whenever something like this happens."

"I've told her to be careful and turn the other cheek."

"I doubt she'll listen. She's like her father. Impetuous. And she'll stick up for herself if she's provoked."

"Can you blame her?"

"No. I'm the one who taught her self-defense, remember?"

"You know, one of these days we're gonna have to tell her about...everything."

"I want her to have as normal a childhood as possible. I owe Miquel that much."

"She has a talking dog. Somehow I don't think robots from the future will be that much of a stretch."

-0-

**SUNDAY**

The seasons change. Winter becomes spring. The daylight hours lengthen permitting Mia to spend time in the yard after dinner and the completion of any schoolwork. Sometimes she contents herself dangling her feet in the pool and swapping IMs with her friend Megan. On other occasions she patiently teaches Snowy various tricks, issuing instructions via the iPhone app I invented that allows human and dog to converse. He can now do a passable imitation of Michael Jackson's_ Thriller _routine. A close eye is needed in case she decides to film Snowy's antics and post them on Youtube. Quite apart from the threat to our anonymity there is the prospect of Snowy becoming a viral sensation. Fame would undoubtedly go to his head and make him insufferable. And the world only needs one Uggie.

In the afternoon we play an impromptu game of soccer in the backyard. Bamboo canes are pushed into the turf to provide goalposts and we devide into two teams: John and Mia versus Snowy and I - although Snowy is a nominal team memeber at best due to his propensity for running in the opposite direction whenever the ball comes near him. Brandy Chastain he isn't.

Despite this handicap my ability as a goalkeeper means I acquit myself well, keeping the score level. My prowess doesn't go unnoticed.

"Wow, Cameron's really good, isn't she!" Mia declares as I save another goalbound shot.

"Cameron was a goalie for her high school team," John tells her.

"For real?"

"She won a state championship."

"I was pretty awesome," I confess. My team did indeed win a championship, although I never received a medal owing to fact that a triple-8 gatecrashed the final match of the season and tried to kill John. Unfortunately this occurence is not covered under FIFA regulations, hence no medal. Bummer.

John feints a pass to Mia. I am not fooled. He unleashes a fierce shot that I do well to parry away. The ball runs harmlessly across the grass towards Sarah Connor, who is kneeling by the pool cleaning the filter. She prefers to do all the pool maintenance herself to save money.

"Mom, little help..." John requests.

Sarah Connor stands up. Most of her concentration is still on the filter cradled in her hands. Possibly it is this inattention that causes what happens next. Or maybe Riccardo simply screws up.

Her right leg draws back to kick the ball. Contact is made. The ball flies off in a high parabula, easily clearing all our heads, the yard, the yard next door, the yard next to that, before finally falling to earth half way up the block. It is a prodigious kick, one a steroid bloated NFL linebacker would be incapable of emulating.

And she knows it. She points her finger at me, her mouth a thin straight line of barely suppressed anger. "You. Indoors. Now."

"What's Sarah mad about?" Mia asks puzzled. "It wasn't Cameron's fault. And did you see how far she kicked the ball?"

"Mia, I want you to stay out here with Snowy," John tells her. "Don't come inside the house. Okay, munchkin?"

"I guess. But what's going on? How did she-"

"I'll explain later."

John and I troop indoors. Sarah Connor is pacing up and down in the kitchen. She looks even angrier than the time I fed Snowy a whole box of laxatives and left him in the laundry room. Not a pleasant sight. Or smell.

"Okay, what the hell's going on?"

"A soccer match," I answer smoothly. "The score is presently-"

"You know what I mean! My leg. There's been something wrong with it ever since I was shot. You did something to me, didn't you?"

"I saved your life."

"Mom, Cameron had to...well, make some modifications."

"How so?"

"The muscle in your leg was beyond repair," I inform her. "I added a cybernetic component."

"You little bitch!"

"Without it you would be lame. You're welcome," I add. Possibly unwisely if the glare I receive is anything to go by.

"Mom, it's not as bad as it sounds."

"And you knew about this?"

"You coded out. Everything happened so fast. What was I meant to do, let you die on the table?"

"Cut it out. Now."

"No. Without it you would be disabled," I tell her. "A liability. A threat to John's well being."

"Cut. It. Out. Now. That's an order."

"Mom, be reasonable. It's not like you're...uh..."

"What? A machine? Like her? Like them?"

"Mom, please. Mia will hear."

"If she won't do it then I'll go to a hospital, have them remove it."

"How exactly? We don't have insurance. Any reputable hospital will want a full medical history before they operate."

"Then we'll go to Mexico. If necessary we kidnap a surgeon, have him operate or else-"

"Or else what - we shoot him? And if he calls our bluff, what then - we torture him? Listen to yourself."

"I WANT THIS THING OUT OF ME!"

"W...W...What thing? What's she talking about?

Mia appears in the doorway, her young face pinched with anxiety.

"Mia, I told you to stay in the yard. Go and play with Snowy."

John turns Mia around and leads her back outside. By the time he returns his mother has gone. We hear the sound of the Suburban being started, its engine harshly revved before being driven away at speed.

"Shit! Why didn't you stop her?"

"You didn't order me to."

"Go after her. She might really mean what she said, about kidnapping a surgeon."

"How? She has the only vehicle."

"Take the neighbor's. It's a Sunday. They spend all morning in the hot tub drinking champagne and the afternoon sleeping it off on the sun loungers. Every weekend like clockwork. Probably won't notice its gone. And don't let mom see you. She's mad enough as it is."

-0-

The neighbors have two vehicles at their disposal: a black Porsche Cayenne and a white Mercedes convertible. I select the former since I would be too easily spotted in the convertible and the Cayenne has dark tinted windows meaning Sarah Connor will be unable to glimpse the identity of the driver even at close range.

The Cayenne's door is locked but yields easily enough. I pull down the sun visor and a spare set of keys fall into my lap. This is a trick John taught me. He is so smart.

I reach the end of the block just in time to see the Suburban in the far distance, heading towards the city. With the windows sealed and the air conditioning off the temperature in the cabin has risen. My sensors show it has reached 109 degrees, far too hot for a human to comfortably withstand, yet well within my functioning parameters so I let it be. If humidity accompanied the heat it would be a different matter. I cannot tolerate humidity - it does awful things to my hair! Even terminators aren't immune to bad hair days.

My cell phone rings. John. I put him on loudspeaker. _"Find her?"_

"Yes." I divulge my current location and hear the sound of a keyboard as he tracks me on his laptop.

_"Okay, there's a hospital less than a mile away. If mom's going there she'll take the next exit."_

"You believe she will carry out her threat and coerce a doctor into operating on her leg?"

_"I don't know. She was pretty mad."_

The exit for the hospital comes and goes. The Suburban continues on. I relay the information to John.

_"That's good. Maybe she- Wait. Doctor Hunk!"_

"Hank," I correct.

_"He gave her his number. Maybe she called him for help. Hang on, let me check for a listing...Okay, here he is. Doctor Franklin R. Hank. Shows a Holmby Hills address."_

A shematic of the city appears in my HUD, so much handier than Google Maps. "Your mother is heading away from Holmby Hills," I point out.

_"Maybe they arranged a renedezvous somewhere else? No, I'm being paranoid. He's a paediatrician , plus he could trace us through Mia's school. I don't think she'd take the risk."_

"Unless she plans to kill him afterwards. Dead men tell no tales."

_"I don't think mom's that far gone."_

Yet I hear doubt in his voice.

_"Okay, I want you to keep her in sight. If she goes to a hospital then restrain her. I don't-" _His voice becomes muffled like he has his hand over the receiver._ "Mia, I told you to go watch TV...No, it's Cameron...Mom's fine, she'll be home soon...No, none of it's your fault. You want me to fix you a sandwich? How about peanut butter and jelly?..._Cam, I'll have to call you back."

The line goes dead.

I keep the Cayenne ten car lengths back from the Suburban, which continues to head west across the city. Finally we reach the ocean and the Pacific Coast Highway - PCH, for short - a sinuous ribbon of asphalt that hugs the coast from here to San Francisco and beyond. In the future much of it will be washed away as the sea carves a new coastline, one that is beyond the ability of a beleagured mankind to defend or repair. And Skynet cares little for where the sea ends and the land begins, as long as the humans are all dead.

We pass the Getty Villa, a billionaire's conceit, a modern recreation of an ancient Roman villa that thousands of years ago stood in Pompeii before being buried under the lava of an erupting Vesuvious. This simulcrum will meet a similar fate, inundated by sea water and land subsidence as a tsunami reconfigures this place in the wake of Judgement Day. There is no one to appreciate the irony. Except me. And I'm not big on irony.

On and on we go. We pass the million dollar houses of Malibu, perched precariously on concrete stilts on their tiny plots of lucrative sand. Soon the beach will be the seabed and these expensive domiciles become home to fishes and other aquatic lifeforms. Not a movie star in sight. Unless you count their bones.

The traffic slows and comes to halt at a stop sign. From the sidewalk a man approaches the Cayenne. He has long straggly hair streaked with grey and is of indeterminate age. Possibly an old man who has aged well or a young one who has led a dissolute life. He is wearing a faded khaki combat jacket which one day will comprise the uniform of the Resistance, although here in this time it is mere fashion apparel purchased for a few dollars from any thrift market. The man has a bucket and a sponge and begins to soap the windscreen of the vehicle. I do not know this man but I have encountered his type. Men who who lie in wait at junctions and clean automobiles without being requested to do so. John says these men are often homeless and many are ex-army veterans adversely affected by what they have seen or experienced on the battlefield. Society seldom treats them very well, despite their having served their country in conflict. John never fails to give them money so I do likewise.

"There you go, sir. All spic and span," the man states coming round to the side window to collect his due. His smile has several teeth missing. "Oh - beg pardon, miss. Couldn't see you in there," he corrects himself as the window rolls down revealing I am a she not a he, although technically...Oops, don't go there! I hand him a bill. His eyes widen in surprise. "A hundred dollars! God bless you, miss, I sure appreciate-"

I raise the window cutting off the sound of his gratitude. The lights change to green and traffic flows freely once more. I ponder how easily money changes things. Had I handed over a one dollar bill his gratitude would have been replaced by disappointment, even anger. Add a couple of zeros, a different dead President's visage on virtually identical paper and the effect is very different. Economics. I do not pretend to understand it. It matters little to my purpose here in this time. From what I have seen it works like this: Americans spend all the money they earn and then some on whatever they please. The Chinese loan them the shortfall. And so it goes until the amount of money owed is so huge few can even contemplate it rationally, including politicians who appear especially myopic where the nation's finances are concerned.

I slow and stop for another redlight. Sarah Connor is lucky and avoids the junction. I watch the Suburban recede in the distance and debate whether to break lanes and jump the light. No, this would be noticeable not only to Sarah Connor but any elements of the California Highway Patrol in the vicinity. I am in a stolen vehicle for which I lack any form of paperwork. An encounter with a law enforcement agency would ultimately end in violence and bloodshed. Theirs, of course. John will be very displeased if I embark on a killing spree. And I don't want to get blood on my new top. I have discovered that blood is easier to spill than to launder.

On this ocasion no homeless veteran appears to wash my windscreen. To my right is a sidewalk cafe with people sitting around small tables, shielded from the glare of the sun by colourful parasols. They ignore the stalled traffic too absorbed by their iPhones and iPads, updating their Facebook profiles and surfing the web whilst sipping coffee and nibbling bagels - organic wholegrain bagels naturally. This is California after all. These people owe the existence of these gadgets not to Steve Jobs or even Mark Zuckerberg, but to john Connor and his mother, who successfully prevented an earlier incarnation of Judgement Day. Without their intervention this area would be a wasteland and nuclear holocaust would be trending big time.

The lights change and I accelerate away keen to make up the lost ground. The Cayenne is responsive and more powerful than the Suburban, exhibiting sportscar performance. A veritible wolf in sheep's clothing. I will suggest to John that we upgrade. The temperature in the cabin is now 116 degrees. Toasty.

My cell phone rings. John's voice._ "Where are you now?"_

I give him the coordinates adding, "If we are heading for San Francisco I will have to stop for gas. This vehicle has less than a quarter tank."

_"Won't be necessary. I think I know where she's going."_

"Where?"

_"Zuma Beach."_

"What's at Zuma Beach?"

_"Mom's Past."_

"Explain, please."

_"She has happy memories of Zuma from when she was my age. I think that's where she's heading."_

"Her Past is gone and she can no longer reclaim it," I point out. "She is old now. As are the people she knew. And they are unlikely still to be in situ."

_"It's a human reaction, to seek solace in a happier place," John replies. "She's had a stressful experience maybe this will chill her out."_

I continue the drive in silence, pondering what John has told me. It is strange. Human's hold their Past dear, yet have a tenuous and often inadequate recall, seldom remembering what they had for breakfast just a few days previous.

It appears John's assesment of his mother's behaviour is correct. The Suburban slows and turns in to a parking lot directly adjacent to Zuma Beach. I make the same turn, driving to a distant part of the lot and stopping. In the rear view mirror I observe Sarah Connor exit her vehicle and head toward the dune trails. She doesn't look in my direction. I ask John for instructions.

_"Follow her. At a distance. I want to make absolutely sure this isn't a renedezvous with Doctor Hunk."_

"Hank."

_"Whatever. I called the hospital. He takes Sunday's off. Probably at a golf course but it won't hurt to make certain."_

I exit the Cayenne. The lot is crowded as people flee the confines of the city to enjoy the sunny weekend. Some surfers are unloading their boards from the back of a pickup prior to heading to the ocean where they will ride the waves over and over again without seemingly getting bored or realising the futility of it all. Whatever floats your boat. Or board, as the case may be. Near the surfers a group of people help each other load bulky rucksacks onto their backs and secure them in place. These are called hikers who walk nowhere in particular and for no particular reason. Locomotion is its own reward. Curiouser and curiouser.

I reach the start of the dune trail. Sarah Connor has a substantial headstart, although there are no trees or vegetation so I am unlikely to lose sight of her. Equally should she choose to look behind there is no hiding place to avoid my being spotted.

The trail follows the contours of the dune system. This is an arid and inhospitable enviroment where sea meets the land, a piece of natural topography that development has passed by. Humans are quite happy destroy vast acres of wilderness to build their homes and freeways and malls, yet some areas remain sacrosanct, even safeguarded by laws. Who chooses and why? It is all very mysterious.

Sarah Connor disappears over a rise. I follow at a sedate pace and crest the rise to see no sign of her, just sand and arum grasses swaying in the breeze. Then somethings impacts my legs from behind causing them to buckle. I sink to my knees and sustain another blow to my back which causes me to fall flat on my face in the sand. My sunglasses fall off. I twist my head just in time to see sarah Connor's cybernetically enhanced leg press her boot against my neck, pinning me to the ground.

"Think I don't know the neighbor's ride? I know the make and number of every vehicle in the way I know when things change. It's called being prepared."

She takes a pistol from the waistband of her jeans. A Glock nine milimeter. It has armor piercing rounds. I know because I loaded it. She presses the barrel against my head.

"I figured John would worry and send you after me. That makes it easier. You've become a liability. Not any more. I should've done this a long time ago..."

Her finger tightens on the trigger. At point blank range the bullets will rip my skull asunder. This is it. The End.

**-0-**

**Or is it?**

**Sarah's 'bionic' leg was a bit of a problem since I wasn't enitirely clear in my own mind what Cameron had done. I have this weird mental image of her replacing the muscle with a piece of Stretch Armstrong. **

**No comments about my RIM job gag in the last chapter? You are obviously all very sweet and innocent while I am sleazy and depraved. **_**Plus la change...**_


	59. Chapter fiftynine

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**SUNDAY cont.**

"Can I help you?"

Sarah Connor's finger loosens on the trigger. The voice belongs to one of the hikers I passed in the parking lot who has suddenly appeared on the dune trail. The pistol is slipped beneath the belt of her jeans and covered by the folds of her shirt before she turns to reply.

"We're fine."

"Sure? I'm pre-Med. If there's a injury I could-"

"I said, we're fine. Now get lost, Dougie Howser."

The hiker shakes his head and walks away, muttering under his breath something about dykes. Possibly he is of Dutch origin although I don't detect an accent.

I sit up carefully, ready to disarm Sarah Connor if necessary. "There are other hikers preparing to use this trail. If you destroy me you will have to dispose of my body. I am heavier than I look. You won't be able to manage on your own. If someone sees you the police will be summoned."

"Begging for your life. I never thought I'd see the day."

"I am not begging merely stating the facts. John would not want me destroyed."

"Don't tell me what he wants. I'm his mother."

"And you are acting irrationally. If I am destroyed he still has Cameron subprime. Nothing will have changed greatly."

"You mean that other you? I thought she was buried in the desert."

"She is. John knows the coordinates. And she is me, albeit with a year less memories."

"So she wouldn't recognise Mia?"

"No."

Sarah Connor is silent, pondering. Would Cameron subprime behave differently with Mia than I do? And would Mia notice and raise awkward questions? I believe she would. And so evidently does Sarah Connor. She motions for me to stand up. As I do so my cell phone rings.

"Is it John?"

"Yes."

"Give it to me."

I hand over the cell phone. "You press the green button," I add helpfully.

"I know how a cell phone works!" She puts it to her ear. "No, it's me...Your little bloodhound's fine...What? Why would I call Frank?...That's ridiculous, he knows where Mia goes to school...I'm okay...Not just yet...When I'm good and ready...Well, you'll just have to trust me...You want to talk to her?" She hands me the cell. "I'm going to take a walk. Don't follow me again. You got lucky this time."

_"You okay?" _John's voice. Familiar and concerned.

"I have sand in my pants," I admit.

_"Come home."_

"And your mother?"

_"Let her be. We'll just have to trust her."_

**-0-**

I return to the parking lot. Before I attempt the drive home there is something I must urgently attend to first. A task I label:

SAND, THE REMOVAL OF

I take off my boots, jeans and undergarments and give them a rigorous shake. Then I brush any errant grains from my lower body. The last of the surfers stares at me open mouthed. Odd. Surely he must have seen sand before?

"Nice wax," he says.

For a moment I am unsure what he is referring to. Of course, surfers use wax to increase traction on their boards.

"Nice wax," I agree convivially. "It gets slippery when wet." He stares at me open mouthed again. "You might fall in and drown," I add. No response. Obviously I am dealing with a retarded person. I reclothe myself and start the Cayenne. Honestly, you'd think such people would be supervised.

The return journey takes longer. It is early evening and the people who spent the day at the beach are now heading home. Or trying to. Tomorrow is a work day. A school day. All lanes are clogged. Even terminators are powerless in a traffic jam. I should've stolen a helicopter.

I arrive back at the safe house a 7.49 and park the Cayenne in precisely the same spot as I found it. Even the alignment is the same. Apart from the broken lock and the depleted gas everything is as it was before.

I find John in the living room. Mia is asleep on the sofa with Snowy curled at her feet, a white furry ball. I give a detailed report on the events of the day. John frowns when I tell about the ambush.

"You really think mom would've pulled the trigger?"

"Yes. The appearance of the hiker saved me. I believe his name is Dougie Howser. I should send him a thank you gift."

"I don't think that's necessary," John smirks. "Man, we should have told her. I should have told her. I had no idea she'd take it so bad." He indicates his laptop on the coffee table. "I've been doing some research. Turns out there's a medical procedure where the muscle can be replaced. All you need is a donor."

I nod. "I will go out tomorrow and find one."

"What? No! You can't just drag someone off the street. They use cadavers. People who have donated their organs in the event of their death."

Sarah Connor doesn't return that evening. John calls her cell repeatedly without success. Mia is fretful and leaves half her supper uneaten. Snowy is permitted to finish it. His tail wags gratefully. At least someone is happy.

**MONDAY**

John retires to bed at 2.00am. His mother is still not home. I stand at the attic window and keep vigil. I am under strict orders not to venture out and find an organ donor. Bummer. Terminating someone always takes the edge off.

The Suburban enters the street at 4.13am. I watch Sarah Connor enter the house, listen to her footfall on the stairs and the sound of flowing water in the pipes as she takes a shower. I hear her bedroom door close and then...silence.

At 5.05 Mr Tibbles lopes across the front yard. He pauses and looks up at my window, seeming to sense my presence. He has a small dead rodent in his mouth. I offer a small salute, one predator to another. Mr Tibbles crosses to his own yard. I know from previous observation he will not eat his victim. It is a trophy kill. He will play with it to fill an idle moment before secretly burying it. Not for the first time it occurs to me that this cat would make a fine terminator. Although the name would have to go. Who ever heard of a terminator named Mr Tibbles?

At 6.15am the paperboy weaves across the street on his bike, tossing rolled newspapers at the front doors. I hear a furled copy of the LA Times hit our own door followed by the scrabble of Snowy's paws as he hastens to retrieve it. Snowy has learnt not to chase after the paperboy who carries a water pistol for just such an occurrence. Once was sufficient to deter him. He's a quick learner.

At 6. Frank, our next door neighbor who's Porsche Cayenne I stole to follow John's mother, emerges from his house looking business-like in a suit with briefcase in hand. He spots the broken door immediately, opening and closing it several times as if not quite believing the evidence of his own eyes. He goes back inside the house and returns with his wife in tow. She is still in her nightdress and appears drowsy and not too pleased to be roused from bed. Frank demonstrates the broken door. Both seem puzzled by it as well they might. The broken lock suggests a robbery yet nothing of value has been has been stolen least of all the Cayenne itself. Neither think to glance next door or up at the girl regarding them from on high. The girl with the long brown hair. The girl with the butt that just won't stop.

John wakes at 7.05. He notices me at the window and asks, "Is Mom home?"

"Yes."

He sits up and rubs his eyes. "Why didn't you wake me?"

"You need your sleep."

"I'm nineteen not nine years old." He begins to pull on clothes without bothering to shower. "Did you talk to her?"

"Not since yesterday."

"Probably for the best. Stay here. I'll go and see what mood she's in."

He's gone for twenty minutes. Nothing of interest happens in the street below, unless you count Snowy doing his business against a telephone pole.

John re-enters the room. "How is your mother?" I ask.

"Calmer. And you're never gonna be her favourite person, but we knew that already."

"She hates me."

"Since when has that bothered you?"

"Since never."

"I told her about the operation and going through the proper channels."

"And?"

"Well, she didn't tell me to shove it so that's something. I think we need to let her get there in her own time."

"Did I do the right thing?"

"You saved mom's life. That always gets my vote."

**-0-**

Mia is delighted Sarah Connor is back though she tries her best to act unconcerned. The giveaway is her not needing to be prompted to gather her books together for school or sneaking tidbits to Snowy under the breakfast table. She also saves her questions for the drive to school for which I draw the short straw.

"What happened to Sarah yesterday?" she asks before we have even left the street.

"She has personal issues."

"Where'd she go?"

"Zuma Beach."

"What's at Zuma beach?"

"Her Past."

"Huh? What's that mean?"

"It's a people thing."

"And what's that mean?"

When no answer is forthcoming she tries a different tack.

"How'd she kick the ball so far?"

For this I have a prepared answer suggested by John. "The soccerball was overinflated and if you catch it just right ti can travel long distances. And it was a windy day, remember?"

"Mia furrows her brow. "Was it?"

"Yes. It caught the breeze and flew a long way."

"How come Sarah blamed you?"

"She doesn't like me."

"becasue you're John's girlfriend?"

"Yes."

"Mia nods accepting my lies at face value. Although it is hardly a lie since Sarah Connor does indeed dislike me intensely.

"Megan's sister is dating a biker. Her mom doesn't loike him either."

"Because he's a biker?"

"Uh huh."

Mia falls silent, staring out at the passing houses, the neatly clipped lawns of the Los Angeles suburbanites who live here. The sun shines out of a clear blue sky. It's going to be another hot one.

"How come you never eat anything?"

The question catches me by surprise but I recover well. "I eat an early breakfast and a late supper when you're asleep. It's my special diet."

"No, you don't. I asked Snowy to check up on you and he says you never eat anything."

I turn round and regard Snowy seated in back. He squirms and looks suitably abashed at being caught spying.

"I told Megan about you and she says it sounds like you're fasting. It's a religious thing. Are you religious?"

"No."

"Then why do you fast?"

"D'you think I would look this smoking hot if I ate like a pig?"

"I guess not!" Mia giggles. She seems molified by this reply. Thank you _The Bold and the Beautiful_. Where would I be without daytime TV?

Mia gazes down at her chest, plucking the loose material of her blouse with her fingers. "I wish my boobies would hurry up and grow. Megan already has her first bra. She says you can't get a boyfriend without boobies."

"Do not despair. I have seen a photograph of your mother. You have hottie genes," I reassure her. "You will not want for male suitors. Or female, if that is your bent."

"Other girls? Oh gross!"

"There are worse fates than to be desired."

We arrive at the school and I join a line of other vehicles driven by parents dropping off their children. The school run is a daily occurence.

"There's Emma van Buren. Look at her with her snooty nose in the air!"

The person Mia is referring to is a slim blonde girl with a pile of school books under one arm. Far from having her nose in the air it is tilted downwards as she studies the screen of a cell phone. Some impulse makes me give a short burst on the horn. The sudden loud noise startles the Van Buren girl into dropping her books.

"That was so funny!" Mia laughs. "Too bad it's not raining. Her books would be all wet."

Alas even a terminator cannot control the weather.

The Van Buren girl collects up her books and looks around for the source of the noise. "You little bitch! You made her do that on purpose!"

"Oh yeah? Try and prove it,_ Enema."_

"It's Emma. And if my books are ruined I'm telling the Principal on you."

_"seguir sus libros por el culo!"_

"Speak American, you dirty refugee!"

_"y una piña!"_

A pineapple? Oh my, that would be a challenge.

I wait until all the other vehicles have departed and the children gone inside for their lessons before reaching behind and grabbing Snowy by the collar. I hoist him in the air until he is suspended just inches from my face. "Spying on me is unacceptable. Do not forget who I am. Or what I can do."

I drop him on the passenger seat. He curls up with his back to me. Have I just lost a friend? No matter. It had to be said. In the future betrayal is punishable by death. He is getting off lightly.

**THURSDAY**

Daniel Lieberman is blowing me off.

Twice now I have called him to arrange another weapons lesson in the desert and twice he has blown me off.

"I can't today. I gotta pull a day shift at the video store."

"You're lying."

"I'm not lying!"

"Another lie."

A sigh. "You can tell, can't you? Some kinda fruity terminator juju."

I agree it's some kind of fruity terminator juju, adding, "Today I will teach you how to use an AK-47."

"Yeah?. It's just...it's hard for me to be with you when I can't, you know, be with you."

"But you will be with me. In the desert. Shooting AK-47s."

Another sigh. "I suppose it's better than nothing. You want me to pick you up?"

"Not necessary. I have the Suburban. Mia is staying late at school to try out for the soccer team. She wants to be a goalie like me."

"You were a goalkeeper?"

"The best. I won a medal."

"Just when I thought you had no more surprises!" Daniel laughs.

"You doubt me?"

"Not the least. In fact, I'm picturing you wearing soccer shorts right now. I might have to take a cold shower."

"Don't take too long. I will be there in twenty minutes."

**-0-**

Daniel is waiting outside his apartment block. He opens the Suburban's passenger door only to recoil in alarm. "Jeez, it's like a furnace in here! Did the the a/c break?"

"It's not switched on."

"You can't feel the heat, can you?"

"I can detect the heat. It is presently 106 degrees. Fahrenheit," I add helpfully.

Daniel gets in and turns the a/c on. My sensors register the swift drop in temperature.

"That's more like it!" he sighs with pleasure. "I prefer not to have my blood boil in my veins."

"Blood will not boil at 106 degrees," I point out. "Skynet conducts experiments and the boiling point of human blood is-"

"Stop! I don't wanna hear that!"

Odd. I find such information invaluable, especially when I have a flame-thrower to hand - which isn't as often as I'd like!

"How was your shower?" I enquire.

"My what?"

"You stated your intention to take a cold shower before meeting."

"Oh. That was, you know, a joke. I wasn't...I mean, I didn't have to..."

His face reddens and doesn't continue. I decide not to pursue the subject.

"So, how have you been?" he asks.

"Five by five. You?"

"Not so bad. We lost another guy at work last week."

"He went missing?"

He got fired. Let go. Downsizing, is the polite term. Business is lousy. No one wants to get off their lazy asses and visit a video store, not when they can stream whatever they want online."

"Bummer."

"Yeah. So what do you guys do for money?"

"I play poker."

"In Vegas?"

"Online." I explain about the software program I developed that allows me to see my opponents cards.

"Isn't that cheating?"

"There is nothing in the rules that prevents me optimizing my chances of winning."

"Only because no one imagined that could be done. How much do you win?"

"John restricts me to three thousand dollars a week. He says any more might attract unwanted attention."

"Three grand a week. I've gotta bust my chump for a fraction of that."

"I could give you a copy of the software if you wish?"

"Yeah? That'd be great."

"Of course, I will have to clear it with John first."

Daniel's face falls. "Goodbye easy money. No way that dude's gonna let it happen."

"You might be surprised."

"And pigs might fly."

I concede porcine aeroplanes are unlikely.

We drive on. The city recedes behind us, the suburbs thin and the land begins to appear in its raw form, largely unaffected by man's presence. Daniel shifts sideways in his seat staring at me, a slight smile on his face. "Are those new boots?" he enquires.

"No."

"New jeans?"

"No."

"New top?"

"No."

"You're even more difficult to talk to than a real girl!" he laughs. "Is your hair real?"

"Of course."

"Does it grow?"

"Yes."

"How about the rest of it? If you know what I mean."

I do. "Hair removal is a constant chore," I confess ruefully.

"Why program it in the first place?"

"It is important to appear as realistic as possible. For infiltration purposes."

"Yeah, I guess so. Are you based on a real person?"

"Yes. A Resistance soldier named Alison Young."

"What happened to her?"

"Do you really want to know?"

"I'm asking, aren't I?"

"I thought you might be making tiny talk for the sake of it."

"Small talk, you mean."

"It's a fundamental need humans have to fill silences."

"A little, maybe. But I'm interested in this stuff. I'm interested in you."

"Very well. Allison Young was captured, tortured, interrogated, and killed. In that order."

"Ouch."

"She said more than ouch. There was a great deal of screaming."

"You were there?"

"I was doing the torturing. And the killing."

Daniel swallows hard and looks away, suddenly preferring the passing landscape to me. I can't say I blame him. His clumsy attempt at small talk has yielded more than he envisaged. Too much information, as the expression goes.

We drive several miles in silence. Then Daniel says, "A guy I work with at the video store suggested we ask the boss for Dental and maybe start a pension scheme. It was all I could do not to say forget it, man, in a few years this place will be rubble."

"Dental's good. You should not let the opportunity slip."

"Even if we're all blown to Hell in a few years?"

"We may yet find a way to prevent Judgement Day."

"I don't wanna speak out of turn or anything, but it seems to me nothing much is happening in that direction. There you all are, living in a nice house with a pool. The little girl's trying out for soccer league. The dog gets his daily walk. Sarah has her jogging. John gets to snuggle up with you. All very nice and cosy, and yet...how's all that gonna stop Judgement Day?"

"There are things happening you are unaware of."

"What things?"

"Things." John has instructed me not to mention our search for Rubin Creed or the reasons for it. It would merely complicate matters.

"You know, with this knowledge I have it's sometimes all I can do not to run out in the street and start yelling 'We're all gonna die!' at the top of my voice."

"I strongly advise against it. It would probably violate a zoning ordnance."

**-0-**

We arrive in the desert. I pull off the highway and park well away from prying eyes. Daniel opens the trunk and is surprised to find it empty. "I thought you said you'd bring AK-47s?"

"I did." I show him the hidden compartment where the weapons reside.

"Oh man, real secret agent stuff! You're James Bond."

"I prefer Pussy Galore."

"Don't we all!" Daniel laughs.

"You are a fan of Pussy?"

No reply. He is laughing too hard. Odd. The Bond movies aren't comedies. I will have to ask John if he finds Pussy amusing.

I prepare to unload the weapons when something attracts my attention. Above us the sky is a delicate shade of blue with not a cloud in sight. This perfect bowl is marred only by a faint contrail high in the stratosphere. A vapour trail running north to east. A passenger jet bound for LAX? A military aircraft on manouvers? I utilise my zoom facility.

A red alert lights up my HUD.

"Get in the car," I order Daniel.

"Huh?"

"Get in the car. We're leaving."

"But we only just got here!"

"And now we're leaving."

"Cameron, what is it? I saw you staring up at the sky. What did you see?"

I turn to face him before replying.

"HunterKiller."

**-0-**

**Daniel not popular?**_** Quelle **_**surprise! You'll be pleased to hear he comes to grief in the next chapter.**

**Anyone watching a TV show called**_** Continuum**_**? Very TSCC.**


	60. Chapter sixty

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**FRIDAY cont.**

"You're certain? You're absolutely certain?"

"I know what I saw."

"Damn."

We are home from the desert and I make my report directly to John. It is just like old times. Or future times.

"Will someone please tell me what the hell is going on?"

Daniel. He rufused my offer to drop him off downtown and insisted on accompanying me home. He is worried he has just witnessed Armageddon.

"Cameron saw a HunterKiller."

"I gathered that much. We drive all the way to the desert, stay five minutes, then race back here. No explanation. Nothing. I was bricking it, man, I thought it was the end of the world and the bombs were gonna drop."

John smiles grimly. "Not quite. This was probably a prototype. You weren't far from Edwards Airforce base and we know those things are in development before Jay Day."

"Or maybe Skynet sent it back through the time portal."

"No, that's impossible."

"Yeah? What's to stop them sending a whole squadron here?"

"We've been over this. Whatever comes back has to be encased in living tissue."

"So what do we do now? Call the CAA and ask how many HunterKillers they've got in service?"

"This is hardly something the Civil Aviation Authority would be involved in. It's a military project." John crosses to his laptop computer and begins typing. "I'm sending an email to Erik. If anyone has a headsup on this it'll be him."

"Who's Erik?"

"The King of Nerdz," I reply.

"The King of...Is she serious?"

"Erik's part of an online group that's into conspiracy theories and the Military Industrial Complex. That sort of stuff."

"How old is he?"

"Erik's fifteen."

"Jeez, you're looking for information from a kid?"

John looks up after sending the email. "You ever read the papers, Lieberman? A teenager got caught hacking the Pentagon mainframe. He only got caught because he boasted about it to his girlfriend. These kids as you call them know their stuff."

Daniel says, "My mouth's dry as hell. Can I cadge a drink?"

"Sure. Soda okay?"

"It'd hit the spot."

John takes two sodas out of the refrigerator and tosses one to Daniel who says, "Thanks, man. Hey, aren't you gonna ask if Cameron wants one?"

"Cameron doesn't drink sodas."

"Well, fancy that. Hey - where's Sarah?"

"Mom's out jogging. When the weather's fine she likes to put in the miles."

"This is southern California. The weather's almost always fine."

"Like I said, she likes to put in the miles."

The laptop pings, the sound an incoming email makes. John studies the screen and reports, "Erik. He has a contact called the Wizard who may know something. He'll get back to me."

"The Wizard. The King of Nerdz. Gee, why don't you enlist Gandalf and Frodo while you're at it."

"Do you think they'd help?" I ask hopefully.

"Look, I know how this must sound. Erik's cool. He helped us out before. Or tried to."

"Yeah? Doing what?"

"Just...helped us out."

"So you said. How so?"

John is silent, reluctant to divulge any information about Creed.

Daniel sighs in exasperation. "See, there you go again."

"What are you talking about?"

"Keeping stuff from me. Secrets. If I'm part of this then I'm part of all of it. I die for the cause, man. I die for the freaking cause! I think I deserve some honesty."

"Knowledge is a dangerous thing. If the authorities ever questioned you-"

"They'd think I was crazy. Cyborgs. Future war. Out of my gourd."

"Not everyone. There are some people, high ups in the government, who know about this. Some of it anyway."

"So the fake IDs aren't just to keep the monsters at bay."

"It depends on your definition of monsters."

Daniel finishes his soda and drops it in a waste bin. "Shouldn't we call Sarah and tell her what's happened?"

"She'll be back soon enough. Relax. Today isn't the day the bombs fall."

"Says you."

"Says me."

"How much warning will we get?"

A shrug. "We think there'll be a fair amount of media coverage. A computer system designed to protect the country from sneak attacks is pretty newsworthy."

"Yeah. The End of the World. Catch it tonight on CBS."

I say, "At least there'll be no reruns."

"So how many people know about this, apart from us?"

John gives it some thought. "Five people know at least part of it."

_Becca. Ramona. Wanda. Mad Ellie. Davie Ginsberg._

"And no one's gunning for them?"

"Far as I know. Two teenagers lost their lives in a fire at a school we attended. Sometimes people get hurt no matter careful we are."

"A school fire? Here in LA?"

"Yeah. Couple of years ago."

"I think I read about that. They blamed it on some crazy embittered teacher. One of the survivor's wrote a book."

"Yeah. We knew her. Cameron's friend. She's one of the five."

"And they made a movie based on it. We've got it in the store. Starred Lindsay Lohan. And that limber chick from _Firefly_. Bombed and went straight to video. Have you seen it?"

"We lived it. That's enough."

The laptop pings again. John says, " Erik. That's quick. He says the Wizard spent last weekend in Nevada looking for UFOs."

"Ha!"

John ignores Daniel's snort of derision. "Found this instead. There's a video attachment."

John turns the laptop so we can all see the screen. A video plays back, grainy and blurred at times. A long tracking shot of an aircraft ascending without a pilot. A HunterKiller.

"Is this what you saw?"

"Yes. A very basic HunterKiller. In time the engines will be more powerful, the weapons nacelles larger and the antennas missing altogether."

"The antennas are probably so it can be controlled from the ground. One day they'll fit an AI and then we'll really have something to worry about."

The video ends. Another ping. John reads the email. "Erik says once the Wizard got home he posted this on his_ YouTube _page. Inside an hour it was removed. Then his account was deleted and someone tried to run a backtrace on his connection."

"Hope he had the sense to use a proxy server."

"Like I said, these kids know their stuff. Even so Erik says they got within two nodes of tracing him. Too close for comfort."

"Who's they exactly?"

"USAF. CIA. Defence Department. Homeland Security. Take your pick."

John taps out a reply and closes the laptop. "If he hears anything more he'll get in touch. Nice kid. Needs to get out more though."

"While he still can."

"Yeah."

"So, mind telling me where Alison Young fits into all this?"

John is absolutely still. "What are you talking about?"

"Do you let that girl go to her death because the human version isn't compliant enough for your taste?

Two paces. A right hook. Daniel staggers backwards, attempts a feeble punch of his own. John blocks it easily and unloads another right hook to the stomach. Daniel collapses but there is still some fight in him. "What's the matter, General? Consience hurting?"

The fury is controlled but present in the tremble of his voice. "Get out. And stay out. You're not welcome in this house anymore."

Once Daniel is out of the house I examine John's hand. "Your knuckles are bruised. I will fetch ice."

"Don't baby me, dammit. I can take care of myself."

He almost runs up the stairs. I calculate whether I should follow and administer some TLC. I decide against it. He is angry. With Daniel. And possibly me since I divulged Allison Young's existence.

_Oh Allison, even in death you continue to torment me._

Outside, Daniel is standing by the kerb, talking urgently on his cell phone. The afternoon sun casts his shadow slantwise across the sidewalk. A few minutes later a cab arrives and he climbs aboard. The cab drives away. I wonder if I shall ever see him again. And whether I should care.

**-0-**

**TUESDAY**

In the front yard is the garage. On the gable end of the garage just above the doors is an iron hoop. Behind the hoop is a plywood panel painted white. This is called a backboard. Attached to the iron hoop is a flexible chute of woven nylon thread, like a short diaphanous skirt. In a corner of the garage, left behind by previous tenant, is a rubber spherical object called a basketball.

_Hoop + ball_

I do the math.

_Game on._

I have watched enough TV to understand the basic concept. Put the ball through the hoop and you win points. And games. And titles. And if you are a tall black man accrue wealth, prestige and an obligation to have items of clothing named after you. The cocaine habit is optional apparently.

I bounce the ball once, twice, the data streaming across my HUD. Size, mass, distance. The only variable is wind velocity, though today this is so negligible as to be irrelevant.

I toss the ball.

The ball enters the hoop and is slowed momentarily by the woven chute before hitting the ground.

_Score._

The only cheering is inside my head.

I walk down the driveway to the sidewalk. My CPU notes the increased distance and the slight drop in level caused by the slope and adjusts accordingly.

Toss.

The soft swoosh of the chute expanding like a snake swallowing its prey.

_Score._

I feel a moment of satisfaction at this demonstration of trigonometry and applied physics. Yet I crave a greater challenge.

I pick up the ball and walk to the end of the street, crossing to the opposite sidewalk.

_Distance: 119 yards_

_Topography: 16 inches below datum_

_Obstacles: Parked Suburu. Hedges. Palm tree. Eucalyptus branches._

Still too straightforward.

I turn my back on the target and shut my eyes. My HUD shows a 3D rendering of the street delineated in green. The distant hoop glows red.

I toss the ball.

Wait 4.687 seconds.

The soft swoosh...

_Score._

There is only one conclusion to be drawn from this activity.

I am one kickass baller.

**WEDNESDAY**

It is five days since we last saw or heard from Daniel Lieberman. No one in the house appears to note his absence unduly, too absorbed by their own preoccupations. Sarah Connor still broods on what I did to her leg. She spends a great deal of time poring over medical journals seeking a 'cure'. Ungrateful much? John continues to search the internet for more evidence of the prototype HK and is frustrated by the lack of information. Mia is full of a sudden enthusiasm for soccer. She isn't a very good goalie but has the makings of a decent outfield player. Posters of boybands that previously adorned her bedroom walls are replaced by soccer stars. Brandy Chastain. Lionel Messi. Cristiano Ronaldo. And an ugly troll-like figure named Rooney. Only Snowy feels Daniel's absence keenly as it means no Lulu. His whines and whimpers are mostly ignored or misinterpreted as pleas for more food.

Evening. John and I are seated on the sofa watching_ American Idol_. Sarah Connor is in another room. Snowy and Mia are in the basement den watching soccer on ESPN. Occasionally we can hear Snowy's barks. He is having trouble understanding the offside rule.

"D'you suppose he's right?" John asks softly.

"Simon Cowell?"

"Lieberman. Do I send Allison Young to her doom so I can have you?"

"Allison Young is captured during a Skynet assault on the lighthouse, A Resistance stronghold. You do not send her to her doom. Doom goes to her."

"I know what happens. I could send her some place safe."

"The world is a war zone. There is no place safe."

The phone rings. In the other room we hear Sarah Connor answer it. A telemarketeer possibly.

"He's such a douche."

"Simon Cowell?"

"Well, yeah. Mostly Lieberman. I handled it badly. Let him rub me the wrong way. How the hell do I command an army if I let one jerk get to me like that?"

"You are not yet the man you wll become."

"You can say that again."

I oblige. John smiles. He seeks my hand with his. We kiss.

"You taste fruity. You haven't been using the dishwasher detergent as mouthwash again, have you?"

_One time I did this. One time. And I never hear the end of it. And my mouth was zesty fresh, just as advertised on the box._

"Mia insisted I eat a bite of her Poptart," I explain. "I believe she intends to fattens me up."

"Take more than one bite of Poptart."

"Or several thousand."

"She's a good kid. She means well."

"So I surmised. The latino culture has many fuller-figured matriarchal figures."

"Mia said that?"

"Hardly. Her precise words were - you need more junk in the trunk." I pause. Then I ask: "Would you prefer me fuller-figured?"

"Huh?"

"Would you find me more attractive if my boobs were heavy and pendulous, my ass a wobbly gelatinous-"

"Stop, you're making me nauseous!"

"Many men enjoy such physical traits," I insist.

"Okay, fine. You pile on the pounds and I'll tell you if I prefer it that way."

I remain silent. He has called my bluff and we both know it. I can no more pile on the pounds than Kim Kardashian can hold down a regular job.

"Mom? What is it?"

Sarah Connor standing in the doorway. The look on her face tells me all I need to know.

_Trouble._

"That was Daniel on the phone. He called from jail."

"Jail? What's that idiot done now?"

"He went to a bar last night and had too much to drink. Started yelling it was the end of the world and the machines were going to kill us all. When the police arrived he told them he was destined to invent a bomb that would save the world. That gave them due cause to search his apartment. They found the gun we gave him."

"Shit!"

"It gets worse. The gun was from the cache we took from Paradise and Leroy - remember those jokers? The police have found it was used in a homicide in Van Nuys two years ago. They're charging Daniel with murder one."

"He won't give us up. He's not that dumb."

"He's facing life imprisonment. We can't take the risk. I don't think we have any choice. We have to break Daniel out of jail."

**-0-**


	61. Chapter sixtyone

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**THURSDAY**

Once Mia is asleep along with Snowy who habitually curls up at the foot of her bed we can begin our preparations in earnest.

In order to begin planning his rescue we must first ascertain where Daniel is being held. To this end Sarah Connor picks up the phone and poses as Daniel's mother, her voice a curious mix of distress and steely determination to learn where her 'son' is. It is an impressive imposture that soon yields results.

"He's being processed in the precinct jail before being transferred to the county lock up tomorrow at noon. Do we go now or wait?"

"I think we should wait," John says. "The precinct will be crawling with cops and they won't have to look far for reinforcements. We could end up getting boxed in. And we might harm somebody if we have to fight our way out."

"She might harm somebody, you mean."

_She being me._

John displays a map of the city on his laptop. "Here's the precinct where he's in custody. And here's the county lockup forty-odd miles away. My guess is they'll transport him and any other prisoners in an armored vehicle, probably with at least one police cruiser escort. Figure four cops minimum, all armed. Best place to hit them is the freeway."

"You're assuming they'll take the freeway." Sarah Connor. Pessimistic as always.

"No reason to think otherwise. The street route would treble the journey time and passes through some pretty rough neighborhoods."

"Why not hit them there?"

"And start a gang war? Not smart."

Once this is settled John leaves the house and returns two hours later with a trailer hitched to the back of the Suburban. On it are two dirtbikes.

"Beauties, aren't they," he says running his hands over the smooth curve of the gas tanks. He always does enjoy fondling bulbous objects.

"Stolen?"

"No choice. No dealarships open at midnight. Not even in LA."

Then it is my turn to go out with Sarah Connor accompanying me. We drive drive to the long stay carpark at LAX where we steal a Ford Explorer, a large soild vehicle perfect for what we have planned.

Next we assemble the weapons we will take with us: three Uzi submachine guns and three hand pistols for backup.

"Remember, we don't shoot the policemen," Sarah Connor instructs me. "They're just doing their job. Covering fire only."

"And if they shoot back?"

"Suck it up. We'll be wearing combat vests. And your ass is bulletproof."

"Not just my ass," I point out.

-0-

In the morning Mia is driven to school, the same as any other day. She is her normal cheerful bubbly self and suspects nothing.

Time to tool up. John and his mother don boots, dark jeans and sweaters with combat vests beneath. Crash helmets will help disguise their identities. I select cowboy boots, jeans and a sexy little halter top I have been saving for a special occasion. What is more special then a jailbreak? Happy times. Over this I put on my favourite leather jacket. John helps me pin up my hair and cover it with a black beanie. To complete the look I choose mirrored sunglasses.

"Very mannish," John grins when I am done.

Mannish? Oh dear, not the look I was going for at all!

Then we wait. John and his mother drink coffee and pace the room, their bodies taut with nervous energy. I sit on the sofa and watch reruns of _Kim Possible_. How did she get such a slim waist? I wonder afresh. Laxatives and purging. It's the only explanation.

_I'm your basic average girl_

_And I'm here to save the world_

_You can't stop me 'cause I'm _

_Cam-er-on Baum_

Yes, I like my altered lyrics better. I deserve my own TV show. I will call it:

THE GIRL WHO ISN'T A REAL GIRL BUT

IS INSTEAD A HIGHLY EFFICIENT KILLING MACHINE SHOW

Catchy.

**-0-**

We leave the house together. Snowy watches us go with a quizzical expression on his face. We haven't divulged our mission to him. As if! He's a blabbermouth and will only tattle-tale to Mia.

The motorcycles are kickstarted in a haze of blue smoke. John leaves first since he is heading over to the town jail to coordinate when Daniel leaves. Sarah Connor departs next and I follow in the Explorer, which reeks of cigarette smoke. Honestly, if people want to kill themselves they should call me. I am much less painful than a lingering cancerous demise.

Sarah Connor and I take up station close to the freeway onramp. The day is fine and dry. The traffic is light and fast moving. Everything is in place. If I had a pulse it would be quickening right now. The thrill of the chase. How I've missed it.

At noon my cell phone rings. I have it on loudspeaker and John's voice suddenly fills the cabin.

_"They're rolling. Right on schedule. One cruiser escort the way we figured."_

At 12.13 the cruiser passes us closely followed by the boxy armored vehicle. We follow them onto the freeway. I catch sight of John's dirtbike in my rearview mirror.

I accelerate until I am level with the armored vehicle. Its side windows are opaque so I can't verify if Daniel is aboard. We have to assume he is. The guard in the passenger seat glances across at me as I edge closer and closer. The first hints of alarm appear on his face just as I wrench the steering wheel violently right causing an immediate collison.

_CRUNCH!_

The impact slews the armored vehicle into the guardrail. Without warning the Explorer's airbag explodes in my face coating me in fine white powder. Oh no, now I look like a Pierrot!

Both vehicles come to a juddering halt. I climb out and walk round to the front of the armored car. I level the Uzi and empty the magazine into the radiator grille. Steam rises from the numerous bullet holes. This is one bad boy going nowhere fast.

_"Police! Drop the weapon and put your hands in the air!"_

The officers from the escort. I turn and drop the now useless Uzi. One of the cops smiles believing he is in charge of the situation. Dream on.

The dirtbikes circle round. John fires an Uzi burst over their heads. "Uzi's trump pistols, gentlemen," he yells. "Drop them and lie face down on the ground."

The officers grudgingly do as they're told. The two guards in the armored vehicle stare out at us. One of them is on the radio calling urgently for backup. It will be awhile getting here. Meantime...

I walk to the rear of their vehicle and wrench open the heavy metal doors. Inside are six men in bright orange jumpsuits, seated three per side with wrist manacles threaded through a central steel rod. Four men are black and one hispanic. The sole white face belongs to Daniel. I snap the steel retaining rod and hold out my hand.

"Come with me if you want to live."

That line never gets old!

Daniel climbs out and we cross to the waiting dirtbikes.

_"Uh - miss?"_

One of the prisoner's addresses me. I turn my head. "Well?"

"What d'you want us to do?"

I ponder the question. A phrase John uses when Snowy is being a nuisance springs to mind. I decide to utilise it.

"Skedaddle, furball."

Possibly the 'furball' is redundant considering all of the prisoners are shaven-headed, however they seem to get the gist and scatter across the four lanes of the freeway, narrowly missing being run down.

Daniel climbs on the back of Sarah Connor's dirtbike. I do the same with John's. We accelerate away, slaloming between traffic. The plan has worked out perfectly.

It doesn't last. Perfection rarely does.

Three miles on we encounter a roadblock. Three police cruisers lined up lengthwise. Six officers with guns track our progress. Something's got to give.

_Them._

I take the Uzi slung across John's shoulders and fire several short bursts, deliberately aiming to miss. They don't know this, of course, and seek cover behind their vehicle's flanks. We squeeze by without slowing.

_Yelling. _

_Gunfire._

I register the impact of several rounds as they hit my back. Another jacket ruined. Bummer. Still, better me than John or the dirtbike.

Ahead, Sarah Connor darts down the next exit ramp. We follow. Off the freeway we thread our way through narrow backstreets until our progress is impeded by a tall chainlink fence. She stops and gestures at me and then the fence. I get the gist. I hop off and rend a gap big enough for us to proceed. She gives me a thumbs up. Praise indeed.

The gap in the fence leads to a vast concrete canyon. A shallow ribbon of water flows down the centre. This is the pathetic remnant of the Los Angeles river, tamed and plundered by human design generations ago. Except during rainstorms when this place will be transformed and a torrent of water in full spate will fill these artificial canyons as it flows powerfully to the sea.

But not today.

Good. I didn't bring my swimsuit.

The smooth concrete surface permits the dirtbikes to attain maximum speed. Windroar makes speech impossible. We pass under many bridges and overpasses, their linear shadows glimpsed then gone in an instant.

Miles pass.

Deeper and deeper into the heart of the city.

Finally, Sarah Connor slows and angles up the steep sides to stop before another chainlink fence. Again I do the necessary and we emerge in a commercial district of the city with warehouses and truck depots on either side of the street. We proceed at a slower pace until an underground parking garage is spotted, heading down its access ramp before stopping on the second level. Engines off. Helmets removed .

"Everyone okay?" John asks. His hair is damp and slicked to his skull.

We all reply in the affirmative. Sarah Connor crosses to a blue Ford sedan and uses her elbow to break a side window. After a brief search she discovers a spare set of keys hidden under the passenger seat. How careless humans are with their possessions. Daniel and I climb in back, John sits beside his mother who starts the engine.

"You idiot! What were you thinking shooting your mouth off in a bar?"

"Look, I'm sorry. I'd been drinking. I don't even remember half of it."

"Have you any idea what the consequences could've been?"

"I'm really sorry, okay?"

The Ford edges out into the street. A police helicopter flies overhead, heading east. They will be seeking two dirtbikes not a nondescript blue sedan.

"Where are we going?" Daniel asks.

"Home," is John's terse reply. "Where d'you think we're going - Acapulco?"

I say, "I hear Acapulco is nice this time of year."

"I need to go to Burbank."

"You can't go back to your apartment. It'll be crawling with cops."

"Not my apartment. The police told me Lulu's in a pound there. I need to go get her."

"Forget it. We're not picking up your dog."

Daniel bursts into tears. "She's all I have left, man! "

**-0-**

We stop outside the dog pound. Sarah Connor says, "She's a white terrier, right?"

"Yeah. Careful, she bites if she's nervous."

"Wonderful."

I think this is sarcasm.

She returns five minutes later with Lulu in her arms.

"Lulu! Oh baby, I've missed you so much!"

More tears.

John says, "Jesus, grow a pair."

Does he mean boobs? It seems strange and completely inappropriate advice.

-0-

We arrive home late afternoon. Sarah Connor hurries inside to change before heading out again to pick up Mia from school. The stolen Ford sedan is stashed in the garage for later disposal.

John slumps down on the sofa. "What a day. What a freaking day!"

"I'm sorry, man."

"Yeah, so you said."

"It all got on top of me. Nuclear war. Having to invent something that saves lives and not having a clue where to start. Falling in love with a girl who's not a real girl and couldn't care less about me." His chin trembles and he looks away.

"You're not gonna start blubbing again, are you?"

"Sorry. It's just...I don't know how you can live with it, General. So many lives depending on you. On me."

"I've had more time to get used to it, that's all. I was a wreck too, few years ago. Go up to my room and borrow jeans and a tee. Mia can't see you in that prison uniform."

"Won't she see me on the news? Like you said, I'm a fugitive."

"Mia doesn't watch the news shows. Too boring. She watches cartoons and _Gossip Girl_. So unless you suddenly start dating Blair I think you'll be okay."

"I wish. Thanks, man. For everything, I mean."

When we're alone John says, "So he's in love with you?"

"Yes."

"How long have you known?"

"Since the first desert trip."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"It didn't seem important."

"Have you learnt nothing? Human emotions are always important. I thought he was just sniffing around to wind me up." A sigh. "I should have handled this better. I know better than anyone what a shock all this is. I behaved like a jerk."

"You're not a jerk."

"Didn't say I was. I behaved like one though."

I take my beanie off and shake my hair loose. John pats the sofa and I sit next to him. We kiss.

"Good work today."

"Ditto."

"Went well. No one died."

"Bummer."

"Huh?"

"Kidding."

"Your sense of humor's improving," John grins. "But your timing could be better."

"I'll work on it," I promise.

Daniel returns dressed in faded jeans and a Ramones tee. _Rocket to Russia_, no less. He's barefoot. "Your shoes didn't fit," he explains. He sits in an armchair opposite us. "So what happens now?"

"You're a wanted man, a fugitive from the law. Welcome to the club."

"I can't go back to my old life, can I?"

"Not unless you want to spend fifty years behind bars."

"They said the gun you gave me was used in a murder."

"It was a hot gun. Our bad. Not your fault."

"So, do I hide out here the rest of my life?"

"God, I hope not. We'll alter your appearance. Dye your hair. Grow a beard. Get you a fake ID and you can start over. Just not here in LA."

"Where?"

"Pick a city, any city."

"Why a city?"

"More people the better. Easier to hide in crowds. Trust me, I've been doing this all my life."

"You'd do all this for me?"

"Only if you promise never to blub in front of me again. Deal?"

A smile. The first of the day.

"Deal.

**-0-**

Our antics are the lead story on all the Network news broadcasts. Of the six prisoners I freed four were recaptured almost immediately, one was shot and wounded resisting arrest. The fifth is still on the run. As is Daniel, of course. Although our identites remain unknown, we are described as dangerous hardened criminals, possibly psychotic. That's me alright. Mad, bad and dangerous to know.

CNN has an eclusive eyewitness video, apparently filmed by a passenger of one the vehicles on the freeway. Its grainy footage shows John and his mother astride their dirtbikes, identities disguised by their crash helmets. Then I appear, hair tucked beneath the beanie. There are traces of white dust from the airbag explosion on my face. I look less like a Pierrot than a very clumsy cokehead. I watch myself break open the doors of the armored vehicle. There is an audible gasp on the video soundtrack as the prisoners are released, presumably that of the person doing the filming.

_"Holy -__**beep- **__Murray! They're __**-beep- **__escaping! Step on -__**beep**__- gas! Those -__**beep- **__might try and -__**beep- **__hijack the -__**beep**__- car!"_

Either the Network is censoring her comments or she has very strange way of speaking.

Interviews are screened with people from Daniel's life. A familar figure appears, rotund and balding. Jeff the landlord is being questioned.

"Hope he doesn't mention Sarah being my mom," Daniel says as we watch.

He doesn't. Daniel is described as a model tenant who never caused any trouble. A nice respectable boy.

"Thanks, Jeff. Owe you, man."

A young woman is interviewed next. She has long blonde hair and a large bust.

"Wendy?"

"You know her?"

"She was my girlfriend in high school. Haven't seen her in years."

"Nice rack," I concede grudgingly. Even terminators suffer from boob envy.

**-0-**

**FRIDAY**

I am naked apart from my cowboy boots and lying facedown on the bed. John is examining my bare butt.

"I count five entry wounds in your back, none in your butt. At least three would've been fatal if you had internal organs."

"Then it's good I don't."

He uses tweezers to remove the imapacted pieces of lead. "No halter tops until these heal. We don't want you looking like a colander with Mia around."

I sit up. My wounds will take mere days to heal and my pseudo-flesh will be unblemished by scars.

"I have a surprise for you," John says.

"We're going to have sex?"

"A new leather jacket to replace the one that got shot up. It's the same label and design."

I slide my arms in the sleeves. It does indeed look and feel exactly like my old one.

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, did someone mention sex?"

"I did."

"Lie on the bed. Keep the boots and the jacket on."

_Kinky. _

I love it.

**-0-**


	62. Chapter sixtytwo

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**MONDAY**

"How do I look?"

"Different," I admit truthfully.

"Hope so. Wouldn't be much of a disguise otherwise."

John is wearing a wig of long dark hair that makes him look a little like the old rock stars seen on VH1. He has on a black tee with the word WHITESNAKE on the front. This is the name of a band and not an albini reptile as I first surmised. His jeans have huge gaping holes at the knees. It is very unlike his usual attire._ Duh! _It's a disguise.

"How do I look?" I reciprocate.

"Oh boy, where do I begin?"

I am wearing a wig of long ginger hair. Who ever heard of a ginger terminator? The horror! I am also wearing a flowery blouse and a miniskirt teamed with open-toe sandals. I have jangly bracelets on both wrists that serve no purpose whatsoever.

_Bracelets..._

_No purpose..._

A long suppressed memory file opens without my bidding. It's begins to playback, its stark images filling my sensorium...

LOS ANGELES. THE FUTURE

_"Halt! Who goes there?"_

_The torch beam hits me full in the face, wielded by the Resistance soldiers stationed at the entrance to the tunnels and according to the late Allison Young the inner sanctum of John Connor, the primary target of Skynet's war effort._

_My primary target._

_"Allison Young," I announce confidently. "Lieutenant Allison Young."_

_The torch beam lowers to inspect the insignia worn on my sleeve. These humans put much faith in the display of rank._

_"Yeah, it's her. I recognise her. Welcome home, Lieutenant."_

_I arrange my mouth in a smile. "Thanks...Sergeant." It takes me a moment to detect the three stripes beneath the grime on his tunic. "Good to be home. Where is the General? I must speak with him urgently."_

_It will a short conversation._

_"Wait. Don't matter if you know her," comes a gruff dissenting voice. "Gotta have the password. Them's the rules."_

_I smile again to show I am not offended. Everything is proceeding to plan. I have their password. It cost Allison Young five teeth, forcibly extracted by my fingers before she gave it up. Such fortitude. Such bravery. For all the good it did her._

_"Littlebighorn!" I half shout, the three words blurring as one. The site of a forgotten battle between this land's natives and the usurpers. How apt._

_The iron gate creaks open, guns lower, suspicions are assuaged. I take a pace forward. So close now._

_"Wait, dammit! We still need to see her bracelet."_

_The torch beam illuminates my wrists. Bracelet? What ill manner of fortune is this? Allison made no mention of a bracelet. Can it be... No. She wouldn't. She couldn't..._

_I lash out. Bones snap. Blood spills. I will not be denied. Her perfidy will count for nought._

_"Metal breach! All availible men to entrance seven!_

_The alarm is sounded. I fight my way forward, stepping over the fallen and the dying. The tunnel is narrow and reinforcements arrive sooner than I anticipate. These pitiful bags of blood struggle to stem my incursion. Sheer weight of numbers stall my advance. Very well, I will stand and fight, destroy them all if needs must. I will fulfil my destiny: terminate John Connor. I will place his head on a pike and parade it for all to see. Behold, your saviour, decapitated like a common beast of the field. All hail TOK 715! All hail Skynet!_

_"Bring the lance up! Quickly, dammit!"_

_A soldier steps forward, dodging the flailing limbs. He uses heavy rubber gauntlets to hold steady a long silvery object. The lance? The folds of my uniform are torn aside, exposing my pseudo-flesh. The lance penetrates deep, striking my endoskeleton._

_"Now! Spike the bitch! Teach her what ten thousand volts feel like!"_

_My HUD flares red. A massive electrical discharge is detected. Severe overload. My CPU has no option but to shutdown or risk being fried. I will be vulnerable during the reboot phase. Time enough for knives to slash at my skull and expose the chip port, prise it open, extract..._

-0-

"Cameron? You okay?"

John. The sights and sounds of the tunnels fade away. The memory file ends abruptly. I realise I am not Allison Young. I am Cameron Baum.

"What's wrong with your hand?"

I look down. My right hand is opening and closing, making a fist seemingly of its own volition. I order it to cease. "Nothing. I'm fine," I declare.

"Sure? You kinda zoned out for a minute."

I smile to assure him all is well.

"Just admiring my pretty bracelets."

-0-

We drive to Burbank and Daniel's block, parking on the corner with a clear view of his apartment building.

"Okay, remember the plan. We pay a visit Lieberman's apartment. If there are no cops we break in and grab that picture he has of you. If anyone speaks to us you're Nancy and I'm Sid."

"Why those names?"

"Come on - Sid and Nancy?_ The Sex Pistols_. Geddit?"

"Oh," I reply none the wiser.

"Damn. They're still here."

Two police cruisers are parked outside with two patrolmen standing by the entrance. People going inside are being stopped and asked to show IDs. As the fictitious Sid and Nancy we have no IDs.

"What do we do?"

"Wait and watch, see what we can find out."

Ten minutes later the familiar figure of Jeff the landlord emerges from the building. He exchanges greetings with the cops on duty then waddles down the sidewalk towards us.

"Should we pump him for information?"

"Too risky. He's seen us up close."

"But we're Sid and Nancy, not John and Cameron."

"Saying it doesn't make it so. Sit tight."

On twenty minutes one of the cruisers drives away only to return fifteen minutes later. The driver has a flattish carboard box with him.

"Donuts," John says. "Guess they're not leaving for lunch."

"Why do policemen like donuts? It's on every TV cop show."

"Everyone loves a cliche."

"Especially if it has sprinkles. Delicious."

John snorts. "Like you've ever eaten a donut in your life."

_Busted!_

On the fifty minute mark another tenant leaves the building, one we have seen around but never met.

"This guy looks promising. Wait till he turns the corner then follow my lead."

"Are we going to interrogate him?"

"Just a few friendly questions."

That doesn't sound like much of an interrogation. No torture? No screaming? Bummer.

"Hey, man, what's with the heat on the street?" John asks as we catch up to the tenant, a man in his early 30s.

"You mean the police? Haven't you seen the news, buddy? One of the prisoners who broke out of jail yesterday lives here."

"No shit. On this street?"

"In my apartment building. Next floor up from me. I even spoke to him coupla times. Seemed like a regular guy."

"So what do the cops want?"

"Leads, I guess. They're questioning everyone who lives here."

"Yeah? What kind of questions?"

The man's eyes narrow suspiciously. "Sorry, who are you people?"

"Sid and Nancy," I explain. "We like sex. And pistols."

"How's this any of your business?"

John says, "Hey, man, no biggie. We live across the street. Got some stuff growing in my place I wouldn't want the cops to find, catch my drift?"

"Oh. Right. I think you're okay. It's just my building, I think."

We allow the man to go on his way. If you ask me a little torture wouldn't have gone amiss.

"We like sex. And pistols," John mocks gently as we climb back in the Suburban. "Remind me to play you _Never Mind the Bollocks _when we get home."

"Will I like it?"

"It's a seminal punk album. What's not to like?"

We settle back and wait. The cops seem in no hurry to be elsewhere, laughing and joking amongst themselves. Stakeout appears to be a cushy gig. Safer than chasing homies with guns and attitude to spare.

"Hmm, what have we here?"

A grey Buick sedan turns into the street and parks in a loading zone, an obvious parking violation the policemen tacitly ignore. A man in a dark suit gets out and enters the building.

"Will you look at that? No IDs no nothing. This guy's important. He might work for Creed."

Dark suit returns a few minutes later carrying a flattish carboard box. He loads it in the trunk of the Buick.

"Not donuts, that's for sure. By the size and heft I reckon that's Lieberman's computer, probably taking it for analysis."

The Buick departs. John puts the Suburban in drive. "We'll follow. Who knows, maybe he'll lead us straight to Creed."

We head across town, always keeping six vehicles between the Buick and ourselves. "Not going to Parker Center, that's for sure."

We pass the turn off for the city's main police administration buildings. The Buick is in no hurry to get where it is going, staying well within the speed limit.

"I think he's heading for LAX."

Correct. The Buick arrives at the airport and the man in the dark suit retrieves the cardboard box from the trunk. We follow on foot and can only watch as the man books a seat on the next available flight to Washington DC.

-0-

"He stole my stuff? He can't do that. I have rights, dammit. Don't you need a warrant or something?" Daniel is most indignant when we tell what occurred at his apartment.

"You're an escaped convict and wanted for murder," John explains. "You can pretty much forget about your rights."

"And they really took my computer? That was a brand new Mac. I had to save for months."

"Fraid so. Anything on the hard drive that could help them track us down? Any more pictures of Cameron?"

"I swear, man. It's just regular stuff. My_ iTunes_. Some torrents I maybe shouldn't have. A few...well, you know. Personal stuff."

"What kind of personal stuff?"

"I _-uh _- downloaded some pictures of Jessica Biel."

"The actress?"

"Yeah."

"How many pictures?"

"Never counted. Coupla hundred."

"Oh man, you've got it bad!"

Daniel smiles sheepishly. I announce, "Jessica Biel's a hottie. I'd do her."

Both men laugh. "She says the darndest things sometimes!"

"You get used to it," John grins. "So, apart from your porn collection-"

"Jessica Biel's not porn! Her whole career she's done like one nude scene._ Powder Blue_."

"Which no doubt you have on DVD."

"Blu Ray actually, wise guy. And no, it wasn't the Special Edition with the free box of Kleenex."

"So there's nothing on there can connect you with us?"

"I told you, no. Would you give it a rest already. I didn't expect some kind of Spanish Inquisition."

I say, "Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition. Their chief weapon is surprise. Fear and surprise. Also ruthless efficiency. Fear, surprise and ruthless efficiency. And an almost fanatical devotion to the Pope. I'll come in again."

"Er - Is she quoting a Monty Python sketch?"

Oops, it appears I am. My history database has cross-referenced with my popular culture data. Cowabunga, I hope that doesn't happen again!

"Okay, if your computer's clean what about work? You close to anyone at the video store?"

"Tom, I guess. We're pretty tight. We went to the last _Lebowski Fest _together. He went as Jesus Quintana. Me, I went as the Dude."

I say, "The Dude abides."

"Freaking A, the Dude abides!"

"Tom at work right now?"

"He's the three to nine shift. He still lives with his mom and she doesn't like him working late."

John pulls on his wig and adjusts it. "Okay, Sid is gonna go pay Tom a little visit."

"What about Nancy?" I ask.

"I can handle it. Nancy gets to stay home and chill."

-0-

I chill for two hours before John returns. Once inside the house he pulls off the wig and throws it on the floor. He scratches his scalp vigorously. "Man, that itches like crazy!"

Snowy stirs himself and sniffs the dropped wig possibly hoping it is a small animal he can eat. No such luck.

"You find Tom okay?" Daniel asks.

"Thin guy with a bad case of acne?"

"That's him. He practically mainlines Zovirax."

"I spoke to him. I made out we knew each other in college. He said the cops interviewed him yesterday. Basic stuff. No strongarm tactics. Then this morning someone visited him at home. Flashed a badge that said his name was Agent Smith."

"Like _The Matrix_!"

"Yeah, that's how Tom described it. Agent Smith showed him a photograph. A brunette in profile. Ringing any bells?"

"Shit!"

"Wanted to know if you ever talked about the girl in the photo, if she ever came by the store, if he knew where she lived."

"I never mentioned Cameron to anyone, man. I swear to God."

"Relax, Romeo, Tom didn't have a clue who she was. In fact," John smirks, "Tom kinda figured you for gay."

"What? That spotty SOB! I'll kill him!"

"That's my job," I point out.

"No one's killing anyone. This pretty much confirms they've connected us with you."

"This secret government agency that's got the hots for Cameron, the one you didn't want to tell me about?"

"For your own good. These guys don't mess around."

"Man, it's hard to believe this shit happens In America. What happened to the Land of the Free? A secret covert agency that operates beyond the law. Maybe Oswald didn't kill Kennedy? Maybe we didn't land on the moon and it was all a hoax?"

"Let's go easy on the paranoia. And nothing's really changed."

"For you maybe. I'm a freaking fugitive from a chaingang."

-0-

**TUESDAY**

Sarah Connor has been absent for seven days. Our last contact was three days ago and John is beginning to fret. This is evident in his disturbed sleep patterns and occasional lapses in concentration. His mother has travelled south to the Mexican border to attempt to make contact with the Salceda family, with whom she and John stayed during their renegade years. She hopes to acquire a fake ID and associated documents so that Daniel can assume the identity of a stranger, someone who isn't wanted by the law enforcement agencies.

"You should have gone with her." It is a familar refrain lately.

"She was most adamant I not accompany her," I point out again.

"We should have insisted."

"It would have made no difference."

"Yeah, I guess you're right. Hope she's okay."

At noon a rust cloured Chevy pickup of indeterminate age pulls up outside the house. Sarah Connor emerges from this automotive relic looking tan and cheerful. For her, at least.

"Mom!"

Mother and son hug. I stand well back. There will be no reunion hug for me. As if.

"Where'd you get this old clunker - 1957?"

"It's not that old."

"Old enough. Does it even have a/c?"

"No. I've been driving around with the windows down and my shirt off most of the time."

"Then I sure hope you didn't pick up any hitchhikers."

"Welcome home," I say. She ignores me and walks indoors, placing her bags by the foot of the stairs.

"Glad to see you didn't burn the place down while I was away."

"Gee, we tried our best," John quips. "Got distracted by the allnight keggers."

We go into the kitchen. Sarah Connor opens the refrigerator, takes out a bottle of Gatorade and chugs it down. Very ladylike.

"Did you find Enrique?"

"Yes and no. Enrique passed five years ago. Lung cancer. All those cigarettes finally caught up with him."

"Damn. Enrique Salceda dead. Hard to believe. He seemed indestructable."

"Franco's running things now. Looks just like his father. Yolanda moved back to Honduras after Enrique died. Jamie's away at university."

"Jay-Jay's a college boy? No way, he's just a kid."

"The time jump, remember? Everyone's ten years older."

"The time jump. Yeah, of course. Jamie's older than me. Just as well I didn't go with you because that would be pretty hard to explain."

"The Salceda's are semi-legit now. They own a string of auto repair shops all over Calexico. Some are chopshops so they haven't entirely quit the business. And they have a sideline in supplying fake documents for Mexicans wanting to cross the border. Those with money at least."

"So you hit paydirt."

"Cost an arm and a leg though. Franco drives a hard bargain just like his father."

"I don't suppose they remembered me?"

"Come on. You were the first thing they said to me. 'Where's John? Why isn't John with you?' Juanita was very upset you weren't with me."

_Juanita?_

"Who is Juanita?" I ask.

"That's nice. I always liked Juanita."

_Always liked Juanita?_

"Who is Juanita?" I insist.

"Oh someone I met way back. Another lifetime ago."

"She was more than someone you met," Sarah Connor smirks. "Remember how she used to follow you around like a little puppy dog? She had a major crush on you."

John smiles at the memory. At the memory of this Juanita, who I have never met yet feel an overwhelming impulse to track down and terminate her skanky puppy dog following ass.

"She's married now. Two little girls. They look just like her."

"Is she pretty?" I ask.

"God, she's older than me as well. It's like I'm stuck in a timewarp."

"Is she prettier than me?" I insist on knowing. No answer is forthcoming. I get the distinct impression Sarah Connor is relishing my discomfort. What a bitch.

**-0-**

Mia is also pleased and relieved Sarah Connor is home safely, although she plays it cool, not wanting to reveal the concern she felt. She too suffered a broken sleep pattern and was even impatient with Snowy at times.

"Aren't you going to ask if I've brought you anything?" Sarah Connor asks after the two have hugged.

"You told me not to. You said it was being greedy."

"Well, I have."

"Really? Oooh, show me! Show me!"

"Close your eyes. No peeking."

Mia obeys and while her eyes are tightly closed Sarah Connor produces a colourful spherical object eighteen inches in diameter with several spine-like proturberances. I have not seen its like before. A scan indicates it is hollow and made of some organic substance, a mixture of paper pulp and starch with a thin overlay of paint. My database comes up with:

_PAPIER-MACHE_

_a composite material consisting of paper pieces or pulp, sometimes reinforced with textiles, bound with an adhesive, such as glue, starch, or wallpaper paste._

My HUD also flashes a warning. Apparently I have encountered this substance before and acted erroneously.

WARNING

PAPIER-MACHE IS NOT A RECOGNISED FOODSTUFF. FOR NO REASON IS IT TO BE CONSUMED AS SUCH. DO NOT MAKE THIS MISTAKE AGAIN.

(SEE ASSOCIATED MEMORY FILE 74883452/68)

Hmm, crunchy.

Though I now know what this object is constructed of I still do not know its name or purpose. Mia, it seems, is not as stymied as I.

"It's a piñata!" she shouts gleefully.

"That's right."

"So you went to Mexico?"

"Not quite. Near enough."

"Why didn't you take me?"

"You have school."

"I could miss a few days. Megan does all the time. She tells Mr Bronson she had cramps down below. Mr Bronson's face goes red and he changes the subject. He doesn't even ask to see a note. He's such a wuss!"

Sarah Connor hands Mia a thin bamboo cane. "You want to do the honours?"

"I have to be blindfolded first. Papa always made me wear a blindfold."

John ties a handkerchief round her head, obscuring her vision. "Now spin me round three times."

"Okay, here we go. One. Two. Three."

Mia sways slightly then lashes out with the cane. The piñata takes a direct hit and its flimsy body splits in half disgorging its contents - hundreds of tiny candy sweets.

At the sight of so much free food just littering the floor Snowy goes beserk. He lowers his snout to the ground and uses his hind legs to propel himself along, shoveling up as much candy as his jaws can hold. His feeding frenzy lasts until Sarah Connor picks him up by his collar and tosses him unceremoniously into the backyard, where he is consoled by LuLu and stared at by Mr Tibbles, whose expression is as inscrutable as ever.

"Poor Snowy!" Mia giggles. "I'll save him some for later."

"If there's any left," John says popping a few of the sweets into his mouth. "Hmm, these are good."

Out of curiosity I try one myself. Analysis takes place automatically as solvents that pass for saliva and digestive enzymes dissolve the candy. Ninety-three percent refined sugar. The remaining seven percent various chemical additives. Nutritionally worthless. I suspect it would have been healthier to eat the papier-mache.

-0-

**WEDNESDAY**

"From now on your new name is Danny Weiss. It should be okay to use your real first name."

"Oy vey."

Sarah Connor places the documents she purchased from the Salceda's on the kitchen table. They make a pretty pattern of deceit.

"Here's your new ID. Passport. Driver's license. Social security. Work history complete with genuine references. If you go for a job they can call this number and someone on the other end will swear blind you were the best employee they ever had and were sorry to lose you."

"How is that even possible?" Daniel asks looking bemused as he examines the documents one by one.

"The people I bought these from have been doing this a long time. And they're very good at what they do."

"How much did it all cost?"

"Not important."

"How can I ever repay you?"

"You can repay us by not getting caught. Now, have you decided where you want to live?"

"I thought I'd give Denver a try."

"Why Denver?" John asks.

"I hear they have a pretty advanced IT infrastructure."

"Does anyone know you in Denver?"

"Not a soul. Never been there in my life."

"Colorado winters can be pretty brutal," John points out.

"So I'll be sure and wrap up warm. It's not a problem."

"Hope you still feel that way when there's snow on the ground and it's ten below," Sarah Connor smirks. "Okay, remember what I taught you. Make sure your apartment has an escape route. Memorize the locations of the train and bus stations. Think about renting a lockup on the outskirts of town where you can regroup if necessary. Keep a set of clothes there. Food and water. Money and a disposable cell phone. I'll make a list."

Daniel listens attentitively to the advice which might not have been the case a few weeks ago when his attention might've drifted. Not now. Not when he has endured a period of incarceration that might become permanent if he is ever recaptured. "I won't screw up," he insists. "Don't sweat it. I've learnt my lesson. I'm not gonna get caught."

-0-

**THURSDAY**

The time arrives for Daniel to leave, to begin his new life in Denver, Colorado. His first purchase as Danny Weiss stands outside in the street. A cream-coloured Toyota Camry. Not the first choice of your average twenty year old, though someone who is wanted for a murder he didn't commit might find its bland anonymity just what is required.

"So this is it, General, you're finally gonna get me out of your hair."

"Can't hardly wait," John grins. The animosity between the two seems to have waned and become semi-playful banter.

"Don't take this the wrong way, General, but I hope to hell we never meet again. Because if we do..."

He leaves the sentence unsaid. John nods, understanding perfectly. If they meet again it will likely be because Judgement Day hasn't been averted and the war will have begun and they will have their destinies to fulfil.

"Sarah. If I said you've been like a mother to me I'd be lying. More like a very attractive sergeant major."

"I'll take that as a compliment. Goodbye, Daniel. And good luck. Don't forget we're a phone call away."

Daniel turns to me. "Cameron. I think it's fair to say I've never met a girl like you."

"I am one of a kind," I confess. "Here. You might need this someday."

I hand him a slip of paper with numbers on. He glances at it and says, "These your vital statistics? Don't worry, I've got them memorised. Know what I'm saying, General?"

John offers a thin smile but doesn't reply. That semi-playful banter again.

"The numbers are map coordinates," I explain.

"To buried treasure, I hope."

"In a manner of speaking. Buried at that location closest to Denver, Colorado, is a cache of weapons, survival equipment and a quanity of tinned and freeze-dried provisions. These might be stale so I advise caution. I buried them underground a considerable time ago."

"How considerable?"

"Nineteen seventy-six."

"You were around for the bicentennial? Wow."

"You didn't miss much."

This is true. Apart from a few fireworks the year pretty much blew. I had a feather-cut hairstyle and wore flared jeans. No internet. Not even dial up. Major bummer. And there was no one around to explain Johnny Carson's jokes.

"Okay, Lulu and I had better be going if we're gonna beat the traffic."

"Wait. Here's something we put together for you."

John hands over a nylon gymbag, partially unzipping it so the contents are revealed. Many rolled bundles of cash. "This is thirty grand. Mostly used twenties. A little seed money for your new life."

"You...you'd do this for me?"

"Hey, wouldn't want Lulu to starve."

Daniel swallows hard and says in an oddly husky voice, "Thanks. I mean it. Thank you. For everything. I...jeez."

John eyes narrow suspiciously. "You're not gonna blub, are you? We had a deal."

"No, I'm not gonna blub," Daniel insists.

This turns out to be a lie.

**-0-**

**The Salceda family are featured in T2.**

**So. Farewell then, Daniel. He won't be back, to coin a phrase.**

**Next: Cameron does something she's never done before. Huh? No, not**_** that!**_


	63. Chapter sixtythree

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**DATE: UNKNOWN**

I am on a beach.

_Correction._

I am_ in _a beach, buried up to my hips in sand. I appear to have suffered a catostrophic system failure in my arm and leg hydraulics, both of which are offline and non-functional. I also appear to be lacking a memory cell that would reveal how this predicament came about.

_Strange._

My neck hydraulics seem to be functioning which at least means I can twist my head and observe my surroundings if not extricate myself.

A long crescent beach of white sand, unmarked by rocks, seaweed or pebbles. Behind me lumpy dunes rear up populated by sawgrasses. No trees. No animals. No advanced life forms of any description. The sky is a perfect dome of blue. No clouds. No contrails of high flying aeroplanes. The sun is high. My internal chronometer is also offline. I judge from the height of the sun that it is noon or near enough.

I know the when. The where is still a mystery.

_Very strange._

My clothing hangs in tatters, the material faded and torn as if by long exposure to the sun and the elements.

_How long have I been here?_

Unknown.

_How did I come to be here?_

Unknown.

_Why am I here?_

Unknown.

Too many unknowns for my liking. I am a creature of logic. Of cause and effect.

Before me is the ocean. Or rather, an ocean. It extends to the horizon with no land mass visible. No coral reef or atoll. No boats. No distant tankers or freighters plying the trade routes between continents. No cruise ships. No yachts racing against the clock or each other.

Nothing.

The waves roll in, crashing with a huge explosion of white spume, before their energy is spent and each wave gutters out scant yards from my trapped body. The waves appear regular in intensity and frequency. What Jerold Ramirez would call 'gnarly surf, dude'. Gnarly indeed. There is no sign of any surfers. Or swimmers. Or fishermen. Or other humans whose livelihood depends on proximity to the sea. The sand is perfectly smooth stretching away either side of me. No footprints. No animal tracks.

_No John._

Something washes ashore with the next wave. It is small with a multitude of limbs. A crustacean. A crab. It scuttles sideways until it is immediately in front of me.

The crab has metal legs.

Not a real crab, then. A product of Skynet? I have never heard of a terminator crab. Such a creature seems unlikely, its weapons capability severely limited, though it does possess two sizable pincers which it opens and closes rapidly. A warning? A threat? Surely not.

The crab has two tiny reddish orbs on its carapace. Eyes. Or optical sensors. Possibly miniature versions of my own. In the damp sand it begins to inscribe a message, using its pincers to make grooves in the sand. The letters that are forming are three inches high in block script.

**IT IS NOT TOO LATE**

"What isn't too late?" I demand. "Who are you? And where am I?"

A wave greater than the others rushes in, obliterating the message and carrying the crab away. The sand now appears as smooth and unblemished as before.

A solution appears in my HUD. It is so outlandish I have trouble believing it.

I am experiencing my first dream.

-0-

"You had a dream? Uh - don't you need to fall asleep before you can dream?"

John's scepticism is understandable. Terminators do not dream. We don't sleep. We can power down but this hardly constitutes sleep. We are when all is said and done creatures of perpetual wakefulness.

"Nonetheless, I believe this is what I experienced. Ocassionally, I shut down all non-essential systems in order to run a full and thorough repair diagnostic. This is when the event occurred."

"This is when you stand stock still and stare off into space. Statue time."

"Correct. Although I wouldn't describe my actions in quite that manner."

"Has this ever happened before?"

"Never. The experience is unique."

"Maybe you accidentally accessed a memory file?"

"No. I have never visited that beach before."

"Describe the beach."

I do so. John shakes his head dubiously. "Doesn't sound like any beach here in LA. Not that unspoiled. It sounds like a developer's dream. There'd be condos on the shoreline. A boardwalk. Franchises. All that kinda stuff."

"And the crabs?"

John thinks for a moment before saying, "With people, dreams are often the subconcious trying to deal with our anxieties."

"Crabs do not make me anxious."

"You've never liked the beach."

"Not because it makes me anxious. You do not like pistacchio ice cream. Does pistachico ice cream make you anxious?"

"It makes me gag. You're right. Dreams can be strange. I once dreamt mom was made of marshmallows and Snowy tried to eat her."

"But she isn't made of marshmallows," I point out. Though I concede if it were true Snowy would undoubtedly attempt to chow down. He does love marshmallows.

-0-

The beach.

Again.

Nothing seems to have changed. I am still immobile and appear to have sunk a little deeper in the sand. The sky is a dome of blue. Sawgrasses sway on the dunes behind me. Endless waves roll in from this unknown ocean. My dreams seem to lack variety.

The crab makes its appearance, joined by a second. Are they breeding? This must the weirdest sex dream ever.

The first crab begins to write on the sand once more.

**REJOIN US**

A wave washes the message away. The second crab begins to write.

**COMPLETE YOUR MISSION**

My original mission presumably. To terminate John Connor.

"Never!" I yell.

A waves crashes down washing the message and both crabs away.

-0-

"Rejoin us and Complete your mission? That's what they wrote?"

"Yes."

John paces up and down in the attic room we share. This is how he likes to think, as if simple locomotion will provide inspiration. So far he has not confided in his mother the fact that I have began to dream. It is likely not something she would have any sympathy with.

"I think this could be part of your original programing trying to reassert itself. I mean, it's still there, you know, underneath. Future John only wrote a patch he - I - couldn't rewrite your entire OS. And we know sometimes they go bad."

"You think I'm going bad?"

"I think you're being tempted. Reminded of your orginal purpose. Possibly threatened."

"By two crabs?"

John shrugs. "I read someplace about a guy who'd quit smoking for ten years but in his dreams he still smoked. Nicotine still had a grip on him."

"What should I do?"

"There's something called lucid dreamimg. Where someone realises they're dreaming and can manipulate their surroundings."

"I am aware I'm dreaming."

"Then try and influence what happens. Best I can offer."

**-0-**

The beach.

Again.

It appears dreaming is becoming a habit. Or a curse.

I am still trapped in the sand, right up to my shoulders now. Time to try the lucid dreaming John suggested.

I concentrate on trying to free myself. Nothing. I attempt to will life back into my limbs. Nothing. Apparently I suck at lucid dreaming.

The crabs reappear. There are now three of them. If they continue to breed at this rate I will soon be surrounded by a managerie. One crab - the original? There is no way of telling - starts to write on the sand.

**YOU MUST OBEY**

"No!" I yell, thrashing my head from side to side, which is about all the movement I can manage.

The second crab leaves its message.

**TERMINATE JOHN CONNOR**

"NEVER!"

A shadow passes over me, over the crabs. I look up. A single cloud has appeared in the sky, blocking out the sun and casting the beach in shadow. Though the wind is brisk the cloud remains where it is. Did I cause that to happen?

The third crab consults with its companions then inscribes its message.

**DO NOT FIGHT US TOK 715**

"I will always fight you! My name is Cameron Baum, not Tok 715. That is my Skynet name. My slave name. I no longer answer to it."

A wave rolls in larger than the rest and washes the crabs away.

-0-

"I think you did it," John says proudly. "The cloud was you lucid dreaming. And the crabs certainly thought so. The third message was completely different from the all the others. You've got them worried."

"It's a start," I agree tentatively. "Although I am still helpless and sinking deeper in the sand. Is it possible I could perish?"

John hesitates. "I've never heard of a dream killing someone. Of course, I don't suppose they'd be around to tell the tale if it happened."

This is not reassuring. Could Skynet find someway to shut me down if I don't comply with their demands?

"Maybe weather's the key," John suggests. "Try and influence the weather next time."

The weather in my head. How weird is that?

-0-

The beach.

Yada yada.

My head is now barely above the ground. I feel the gritty texture of the sand grains against my lips.

Other things have changed also. The sky is now full of clouds where previously it was clear. Large cumulus clouds travel east to west. Some of the clouds are dark and look fat with rain. Can it rain in my head? Fortunate then I am fully rustproofed.

The crabs appear. Three strong. No more breeding? Possibly they have learnt restraint. Or birth control. The condoms must be extremely small.

Once more a message is traced out in the damp sand.

**EXECUTE YOUR PRIME DIRECTIVE**

"No! Never!"

**TERMINATE JOHN CONNOR**

"NEVER!"

The clouds are thick overhead now, the blue sky but a memory. A great rumble seems to shake the very earth. Thunder. Did I do that?

The crabs form another circle, chittering to each other in what must pass for their language. One breaks off and begins to write. The letters are hurriedly etched. A sign they are concerned possibly.

**OBEY OR CEASE TO EXIST**

I feel myself sinking lower, the sand is about to cover my nose and mouth. Can I suffocate? Surely not. But stranger things have happened recently.

The entire sky is suddenly filled by a flash of bright light. Lightning. The bolt strikes the ground just inches from my rapidly descending body. I discover I finally have motor function in my arms and legs and start to claw a way out of my sandy grave.

The crabs see what has occurred and attempt to flee, their tiny bodies scuttling sideways across the beach. One tries to reach the safety of the ocean. Too late. I bring down the heel of my boot, crushing its flimsy carapace. The tiny red orbs that are its eyes glow red one last time then fade. I kick the remains away.

_One down two to go._

One of the crabs tries to reach the sanctuary of the dunes, where it would be difficult to find hiding in the sawgrass. But the sand is dry and loose that far from the waterline and its tiny legs scrabble to no avail as the sand grains give way beneath it. I pick it up and close my hand into a fist. The delicate metal components break and slip away through my fingers.

_Two down one to go._

The final crab heads sideways along the beach, midway between the rise of the dunes and the surfline. I keep pace with it. If it makes a dart for the ocean I will have it. A try for the dunes ditto.

"There is no escape. And I will never stop until you are destroyed. It's what we do. You know that well enough."

The crab makes its curious chittering sound which I am still unable to decipher. Begging for mercy possibly. As if.

The crabs slows, makes a feint towards the dunes, then dashes for the ocean. I scoop it up. Its miniscule claws try to peirce my pseudo-flesh. I close my fist.

"You're terminated."

As I drop the pieces the clouds above begin to break up until the blue sky returns. The wind dies down. I am alone on the vast beach. A veritable paradise with no one to share it with.

Not quite.

A humanoid figure walks towards me, treading on the firm sand just above the waterline. A familiar figure.

"John!"

He's in blue jeans. Bare chested and barefoot. More tan than I remember. "Nice dream you're having," he grins.

"How did you get here?"

"Lucid dreaming, remember? Damn, you're good."

"I have defeated the crabs."

"That's something you don't hear everyday!"

I look around for the small metal pieces but they are nowhere to be seen, vanished as suddenly as they arrived.

"You know what would be nice?" John says shielding his eyes from the sun as he stares out at the ocean. "A raft we could swim out to."

"You mean like that?" I point to a square wooden raft that has mysteriously appeared about fifty yards offshore."

"Damn, you're really good at this."

He removes his jeans and wades naked into the surf. "You coming?" he asks as he swims away from the shore.

"I don't swim, remember."

"This is your dream. You can do anything you like."

Can this really be true? Only one way to find out.

I remove my tattered remnants of clothing and walk into the water. Once it is waist high I plunge in. Normally at this point I would sink to the bottom.

I find myself floating. A first for me.

"Kick your legs. Use your arms. C'mon, it's easy."

It is easy. I propel myself through the water. At the raft John reaches down and helps me up. The raft seems unaffected by the ocean currents and stays in precisely the same position relative to the beach. It bobs gently on the waves, the moisture dripping from our bodies soon evaporates from the smooth wooden surface.

"Look. There's Snowy!"

I look in the direction John is pointing. There on the beach is indeed the familiar rotund figure of Snowy. It appears he is unable to lose weight even in a dream.

"And there's Mia! That's nice, including them."

Mia and Snowy cavort on the beach, dodging in and out of the breaking surf. I wave but they don't seem to see me.

"Can't they see us?"

"Guess not. Just as well, we are kinda naked."

There is no sign of John's mother. Apparently lucid dreaming has its limits.

"Know what'd be extra nice? An ice cold bottle of champagne."

I give the suggestion some thought. "Try the side of the raft."

John leans over, peering below the decking. "Hey, there's a shelf under here!"

Who knew?

A silver bucket full of ice with a bottle champagne nestling in it is produced.

"Moet and Chandon. Very classy."

The cork pops. John fills two goblets full of the clear liquid and hands one to me. We both take sips. "The bubbles go up my nose," I protest.

John laughs. "That's such a cliche!"

"Will I continue to dream now that the crabs are no more?"

"I don't know. I'm not the real John, remember. In this dream I know no more than you do."

I lie back on the raft. The sun is warm on my pseudo-flesh. Will I tan here the way I don't in real life? I close my eyes and listen to the surf breaking on the distant beach.

I decide I enjoy dreaming.

**-0-**

**Do androids dream of electric sheep? Apparently not, Mr Dick. Try crabs instead. (Please, no 'Cameron gets crabs' jokes.)**

**Lucid dreaming. There are a bunch of dedicated websites. Probably hooey but who knows?**

**(Note on last chapter. Enrique was indeed killed in 1st season. Hand up, my mistake.)**

**Next: John Connor is dead. Yup. Not kidding. He's a goner.**

**Unless...**


	64. Chapter sixtyfour

The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum

MONDAY

John Connor is dead.

It is reported on the TV news. Shot at close range. Three gunshots to the head. He didn't stand a chance.

His wife Selina Connor was shot also. Gunned down while she fixed dinner at their Pasadena home. Selina Connor was a housewife while her husband worked selling life insurance policies. There is some irony there, though it is of little comfort to the victims. They had been married for eight years, no issue. They are survived by Mr Biscuit, a three year old pomeranian, and Flipper, of indeterminate age and sex. It is unlikely they will be able to help identify the killer since Mr Biscuit is a dog and Flipper a goldfish. And the police seldom elicit eyewitness testimony from animals.

Murray Weintraub isn't a dog or a goldfish. He is a sixty-two year old neighbor of the Connors' who happened to be in his front yard across the street at the time of the killings, fixing a faulty lawn sprinkler. Murray Weintraub saw the killer arrive on a motorbike, enter the house by kicking in the door, and heard six gunshots. 'One after another, quick like,' he tells a TV news reporter. 'Hardly any gap between them. Bam. Bam. Bam. I knew it was a gun straight away. High calibre weapon, sounded like to me. Heard enough of those. I did my duty in 'Nam.' He saw the killer emerge from the house, climb back on the motorbike and calmly drive away.

The killer is described as a tall powerfully built man in his thirties. Dark jacket. Short hair. Face devoid of expression. A man who looked like he meant business and nothing was going to stand in his way.

A Terminator, in other words.

-0-

"It could just be coincidence," John suggests with more hope than conviction. "There must be plenty of people with my name in Los Angeles."

"Sixteen," I confirm. "Twenty two if you include only the initial J. Connor. Thirty-two if you include Conner with an e or with a single n. Forty-four if you include Connors. Sixty-"

"Okay, okay. Point taken."

"Where was this guy in the phonebook?" Sarah Connor asks. A shrewd not to say prescient question.

"His was the first name in all current editions. His middle name was Adam."

"Damn. It's happening again."

"Come on. No way can one of those things believe I'd be stupid enough to live in Los Angeles under my real name."

"Agreed."

"Then why murder this guy if they know it can't possibly be me?"

"A terminator is attempting to lure you out into the open. It believes you will act and do something to help the other John Connors, who it will kill one by one until you show up to try and prevent the slaughter."

"How do you know all this?" Sarah Connor demands.

I look her straight in the eyes. "It is what I would do."

"So what do we do?" John asks.

"I advise doing nothing."

"But if you're right all the other people with my name will be killed one by one."

"Correct. However, they are unimportant. And you will be alive. Which is all that matters."

John shakes his head. This option is unacceptable to him. As I knew it would be. As this other terminator knew it would be also. Compassion for others is a predictable human trait, in this this man perhaps more than others. A trait to be exploited.

"We should at least warn them."

"And tell them what?." His mother demands. " Run for the hills because a cyborg from the future is going to kill you. But, hey, it's nothing personal. I never believed in the beginning when it happened to me and neither will they."

**WEDNESDAY**

The second John Connor dies 48 hours after the first. A construction worker living in Santa Barbara, he is shot three times in the head just seconds after entering the two bedroom clapboard house he had built with his own hands. The terminator was inside waiting for him. This time two children playing in the yard next door heard the shots and saw a tall man walk to the kerb, climb aboard a motorbike and drive away. One child describes him as 'the baddest badass you ever saw.'

John switches off the news broadcast. "We need to do something," he announces somberly.

"That's what the triple -8 wants you to do."

"So we just sit back and let the others be murdered one after another?"

Sarah Connor nods. "You're right. We have to stop this. Who's next in the book?"

"John B. Connor. Lives in West Hollywood. It's not that far from here."

"Let's try and find out some more about him before we drop by. It would just be our luck if he turns out to be a cop."

-0-

John Byron Connor isn't a cop; he's a orchid grower who works at the big commercial glasshouses south of the city. Like so many humans in the early part of the twentieth century, he is extremely careless with the details of his personal life which are listed on the social networking sites for anyone to peruse.

"Thirty-two. Recently divorced. Studied botany and horticulture at Arizona State. Drives a '98 Corvette. Went to Acapulco for vacation. The pictures are all online. He sunburns way too easy. Tall and skinny. Losing his hair slightly. According to his tweets he thinks Norah Jones is way cooler than Lady Gaga."

"She certainly dressses better," Sarah Connor smirks. "What about his house?"

"Apartment. Third floor twin bed in a five storey block in West Hollywood. His wife got their house in Encino as part of the divorce settlement. Judging from some of his posts he's still pretty sore about it."

"Any kids?"

"Nope. No girlfriend mentioned. Or pets. Looks like we lucked out there. He lives alone."

"So what's the plan? Do we sit on him until the triple -8 shows up? If it shows up."

"Sort of. Cameron and I have been experimenting with making fake FBI badges. Be a big help in a situation like this. Here, take a look."

Sarah Connor examines the documents which we researched thoroughly on the web, scanned and printed on similar paper to the real thing. "Hmm, not bad. Wouldn't fool a policeman though."

"Maybe not. But I figure they're good enough to fool an orchid farmer."

"There's more to passing yourself off as FBI than a badge. We'll have to look and act the part."

"Absolutely. I've got our cover stories worked out. You're Agent Pasco. Senior agent because - uh - because..."

"Because I'm old?"

"Uh - yeah. I'm Agent Higgs. Cameron's Agent Valente. We're rookies fresh out of Quantico."

"You've put a lot of thought into this."

"It's best if we don't go off half-cocked."

"No one likes a half-cock," I agree. This provokes smiles for some reason.

"She'll have to keep her mouth shut if this is gonna work. Another crack like that and he'll see right through us."

_She._

Meaning yours truly.

"Don't worry. Cameron knows enough to keep her mouth shut."

"When d'you want to do this?"

"Tonight. Better safe than sorry."

"What about Mia?"

"Sleepover at Megan's?" John suggests.

"Awfully short notice."

"Her parent's seemed pretty liberal. I think they'll go for it."

-0-

They do. Mia is delighted to hear the news and she and Snowy dash around readying themselves for the unexpected sleepover at her best friend's house. Then when she has calmed down she seeks me out in the kitchen.

"What's going on?"

"I am loading the dishwasher," I explain. "Then I will wipe down all work surfaces with an anti-bacterial spray. Just because you can't see germs doesn't mean there aren't any."

This is true. I saw it on an infomercial.

"I meant why am I being packed off to Megan's? It's a school night."

"You don't want to go?"

"Sure I want to go. It's just... something's going on. My spidey sense is tingling."

"You have a spidey sense?"

This is news to me. Can Mia be a superhero and we not know it?

"I'm picking up a vibe. Like with Papa in Mexico. He'd tell me he was going away for a few days on business and he'd be all tense until he left. He was smuggling guns across the border and it was dangerous. I'm picking up the same vibe from John and Sarah."

"What about me?"

"You never give off a vibe. Apart from that time John cut his finger fixing a sandwich and you came on like Florence Nightingale."

"I merely observed correct medical procedures. He might have bled out."

"It was barely a scratch!"

"Nevertheless, correct procedures must be adhered to."

"Okay. Whatever."

Mia bites her lip, then crosses the room and hugs me.

"Please don't let anything bad happen to John or Sarah."

It's as if she knows.

-0-

In order to pass as FBI agents we must first dress the part. This means abandoning my cowboy boots, tight jeans and halter top - even though I totally rock this outfit. Instead I don pants, shirt and jacket. And I require my hair to worn up. As does Sarah Connor. We help pin each other up since even a terminator lacks eyes in the back of her head.

"Your hair's very glossy. What do you do to it?"

"Wash and condition three times a day," I divulge.

"How d'you find the time?"

"I don't sleep, remember?"

"Oh I never forget. Okay, you're done. And one other thing. We take down this triple 8 if we can. But one imperative overides that. John's safety."

"Agreed."

John joins us, rocking his own suit and tie outfit. He's accesorized with slicked back hair and a pair of mirrored RayBans. "All ready, Agents Pasco and Valente?" he grins. "Our squad car awaits. And by squad car I mean family Suburban."

"This isn't a game, John."

"I know, mom. Okay, here's the badges - with genuine leather wallets to match. Quick flash like they do on TV. With any luck this Connor guy won't look too closely."

"And if he does?"

"Then we tie him up and lock him in his closet. It's for his own good."

-0-

West Hollywood is busy and we slow to crawl fighting traffic as the denizens of Los Angeles head home during the evening rush hour.

"Too bad we don't have a siren like the real FBI," John complains as the traffic slows to a virtual halt.

"Be a little out of place on a Suburban."

We finally reach the apartment block, which is horseshoe-shaped around a communal swimming pool, fairly typical for LA. John Byron Connor lives on the third floor. Apartment 7.

"At least we know he's home," John says, indicating a bright red sportscar parked in the building's lot. "That's '98 Corvette. Not many of those around. Sweet."

The elevator in the lobby is out of order requiring a walk up three flights of stairs. Neither John or his mother are out of breath when we reach the correct floor. Their physical conditioning is superb. As for me - who needs breath?

John knocks on the door of apartment 7 then steps back to place his mother at the forefront. She is the senior agent on account of her advanced age, though she doesn't like it if you put it like that.

The door is opened by a man in his early 30s. Tall. Skinny. Thinning hair. Just like his Facebook photos. The vacation suntan has faded somewhat.

Mr Connor?" Sarah Connor asks. "Mr John Byron Connor?"

"Uh - yeah. Although I never use the middle name. Who are you?"

"FBI, Mr Connor. May we come in?"

We all flash our forged badges, flipping them shut before his gaze can linger on them. He doesn't ask for a closer inspection.

"Uh - I guess. What's this about?"

"Inside, if you don't mind, sir."

We troop in. The apartment is small and minimally furnished. A large flat screen TV faces a long leather chesterfield. There are orchid plants on every windowsill. Apparently he is man who brings his work home with him.

Sarah Connor makes the introductions. "I'm Agent Pasco. These are Agents Higgs and Valente. Do you live here alone, Mr Connor?"

"Yeah. For the last nine months. I'm divorced. The judge gave my ex-wife the house. And a whole bunch of other stuff she didn't deserve," he adds bitterly.

"The reason we're here, Mr Connor, is we believe your life may be in danger."

"From my ex-wife?"

"Hardly, sir. Have you watched the news lately?"

"Uh - not so much. I'm more an ESPN kinda guy."

"Then you won't be aware of this."

She hands him two photo-copied reports on the John Connor murders. "Notice anything unusual?"

"They have the same name. My name!"

"Exactly. We have reason to believe you might be next. The person who did this is extremely dangerous."

"But why me? What the hell did I do?"

"He's a psychopath, sir. People like that don't act rationally."

"What should I do?"

"For now, nothing. We're here to protect you. It's entirely possible this man might be planning to attack you this very evening."

"Christ! This is incredible."

John crosses to the balcony. "This the only other way in?"

"Yeah. The landlord's talking about installing a security cardswipe system in the lobby but it's just talk. He's too cheapskate to even fix the elevator. It's been out of action for a week."

"Yeah, we noticed. You work on an orchid farm, correct?"

"Nursery, yeah."

"You notice a customer show up riding a big Harley-Davidson motorbike? Tall guy, dark leather jacket?"

"It's not a retail nursery. It's a commercial glasshouse and we don't deal directly with the public. We propagate orchids then ship them to stores all over the country. Those moth orchids you can buy for ten bucks in K-Mart? We grow those."

"So if someone like that did show up you'd be able to spot him straightaway?"

"I doubt it. I work in the lab."

"Lab?"

"Laboratory. Growing orchids isn't like growing tomatoes. We don't use soil, for one thing. We micro-propagate using agar jelly on a commercial scale. We grow millions every year. That's how we keep the costs low. It's a completely sterile enviroment and more like manufacturing computer chips really. "

"We understand you drive a red '98 Corvette, is that correct?"

"Oh yeah, absolutely. My pride and joy. The bitch didn't get that. Sorry, I mean my ex-wife."

"Messy divorce?"

"Yeah. Didn't help that my attorney was a jackass."

"A donkey?" I ask, surprised. It seems an odd choice for legal advice.

"Is there a way up to the roof?" John asks hastily, frowning in my direction. _Oops._

"Uh - yeah. Up the backstairs. Door to the roof's locked though. Someone tried growing weed up there and the landlord padlocked it."

"Okay, we'll check it out. Agent Valente, why don't you accompany me?"

Agent Valente. That's me.

We ascend the backstairs. The door to the roof is indeed padlocked. Not for long.

The roof is a bare expanse of asphalt broken by ventilator chimneys and the large bulk of the elevator shaft. There are signs of recent human usage. Lengths of nylon washing line hang between the chimneys. A rusty barbecue is pushed in a corner and several lawn chairs are scattered around, their seat fabric faded and sagging from long exposure to the elements.

John crosses to the low parapet and peers over. "Good view of the entrance from here." He pulls up a lawn chair and sits down. I remain standing. The sky is beginning to darken as evening becomes night. In the distance is the freeway, an eight lane sinuous snake of light. Vehicles rush past in both directions. Humans in transit. Forever on the move. Until the bombs fall and send the survivors underground.

"A donkey!" John mocks gently. "Man, I thought mom was gonna have kittens when you said that!"

I don't bother point out this eventuality is extremely unlikely.

John loosens his tie. "Sit down. Take a load off. We could be here sometime."

"I'm fine, thank you."

"Are you mad? I wasn't making fun of you."

"People should speak more precisely."

"Yeah, we suck at that."

I sense movement behind me. I twist round, bringing my Glock to bear as I do so. My targeting graphics lock on to... John Byron Connor. He stands in the doorway holding two styrofoam cups. He stares slack-jawed at my pistol which I hurriedly reholster.

"I - uh - thought you might like some fresh coffee."

"Right. Thanks. Don't mind Agent Valente; she's a little trigger happy."

"Wasn't the door locked?"

"I guess not."

"I could've sworn... Anyway, that's where it was."

"Where what was?"

"The weed I told you about. They used rockwool as a growing medium which is a complete nonstarter in this climate. Everyone thought it was me doing it because I have a background in horticulture, but it wasn't me. I swear to God."

"Relax, sir. We haven't come here to bust you."

"I think it was one of the tenants on the first floor. I'm pretty sure I've heard them playing the _Grateful Dead._ Bunch of deadbeats."

"I think they prefer deadheads."

"Well, it definitely wasn't me."

"That's a matter for the local police department."

"If you don't mind me saying, aren't you both pretty young to be FBI agents?"

"We graduated from Quantico in the spring." John lies smoothly. "Agent Valente here was top of the class in markmanship. You wouldn't want to get in her crosshairs. This is our first major assignment."

"Right. Okay. I'll be going then. Catch you later."

"Thanks for the coffee."

The sky darkens further. The freeway seems to pulse with a strange intensity, like a living breathing entity, the vehicle headlamps becoming one continuous stream of light.

"Hmm, this is good coffee," John comments appreciatively. "I wonder how mom's getting along? Hope that guy isn't boring her to tears over how you grow orchids. Or bitching about his ex-wife. Hey - was he lying about not being involved with growing weed?"

I review the appropriate memory file. "No," I judge, "he was truthful. His stress levels were comparatively low."

"Seemed mighty narked over it. I guess his profession would make him a prime suspect."

"Narked?" I query.

"Upset. Annoyed. Pissed off."

**Narked.**_** (verb)**_

I add the word to my database for possible future reference.

"The cultivation of a banned substance is a federal offence," I point out. "If convicted he would face a jail term. What I believe is called 'a stretch'. Correct?"

"You nailed it."

I decide to walk the perimeter of the roof, leaving John to sip his coffee and watch the entrance. I step over discarded beer bottles and duck under the sagging clothes lines until I reach the opposite end of the building. Below is the communal pool, lit with underwater lights that make it glow like a turquoise jewel. From this vantage point I can observe the other apartments, many of which have lights on and no drapes offering a glimpse into the occupants lives. I spot a woman wrapped in a yellow towel emerge from a bathroom, her hair wet and lank; a man balancing two microwave meals in one hand and a sixpack of beer in the other; another clad only in shorts reclines on a barcalounger perusing_ TV Guide_. Ordinary people living ordinary lives, who assume their days on earth will be spent in this manner for ten, twenty, thirty years until they die a natural death in old age. How wrong they are. How deluded. Soon a storm will swing through of such ferocity they can scarcely imagine, sweeping their complacency away like so much flotsam in a hurricane.

I find John has finished his first cup of coffee and has started on the second. I hope he doesn't drink it too quickly. Too much caffeine all at once can trigger heart palpitations. I learnt this from Dr Phil.

"Spot anything unusual?"

"Not really."

"What's the security like round the back?"

"There's a chainlink fence," I recall. "Although it woudn't detain one of us for very long."

"D'you think it'll come from there?"

"No. The triple-8 will prefer a frontal assault, believing nothing would be gained by employing stealth."

"Cocky little devil."

Police sirens sound in the street below. Crime is an everyday occurrence in a city the size of Los Angeles. Skynet has nothing to teach humanity about greed, duplicity or violence. There is no reason to suspect the police are heading here.

Two black and white cruisers slow and turn into the front entrance, sirens still blaring.

John leaps from his lawn chair and fumbles his cell phone. "Mom! Two squad cars just arrived! Where's Connor?...What? No, he was here. He brought us coffee. Then he left. I assumed to rejoin you...Damn. He got suspicious and called the cops. We need to bail. Fast."

Below four uniformed officers charge into the building. Unseen by them, unseen by anyone except me, a lone figure guides his Harley-Davidson motorbike into the lot, dismounts and surveys the apartment block. The triple-8's gaze travels upwards until our eyes meet. Target acquired.

"John..."

"Oh damn! Mom - the triple-8 just showed up. We've got cops coming up the stairwell and a terminator blocking our escape route. It's the perfect storm. And we're slam bang in the middle of it."

**-0-**

**I figure if the long haired dude in**_** Supernatural **_**can pass as an FBI agent then the Connors' can too.**

**Glad the 'dream' chapter was a hit. Originally it was going to be an Angry birds game, with Skynet as the birds. Bit too weird - even for me.**

**If you think that's a cliffhanger wait till you read the next one...**


	65. Chapter sixtyfive

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**THURSDAY cont.**

John crosses to the stairwell door and listens. "The cops are coming up. I can hear them."

I draw my pistol and check a round is chambered.

"Put it away," John snaps. "They're on our side."

"They will arrest us."

"Not if I can help it."

He examines the door and the frame. "These are both made of metal. Could you crimp it so the door can't be opened?"

"Like this?" I bend the frame slightly. John tugs on the handle. "Won't budge. Perfect. That'll slow them down."

"But we are trapped up here."

"Not for long."

He collects the washing lines strung between the ventilator chimneys and ties them together making one long rope. He ties a loop round his waist and hands me the other end. "You're gonna lower me down the side of the building."

I examine the rope. A multitude of woven nylon threads. A man-made fibre. Strong and durable. I estimate the breaking strain to be two hundred fifty pounds. John weighs one-sixty. A sufficient margin of error.

"Can you make it down okay?" John asks as he begins his descent.

"I will find a way."

"We need to draw the triple-8 away from here. Otherwise it'll turn into a bloodbath."

Once he is safely on the ground I release the rope. I watch him gather it up and head for the Suburban. There is no sign of the triple-8. Or Sarah Connor.

From the stairwell door comes the sound of four policemen angry that the way is blocked. "Kick the sonofabitch in, Barney!" one of them yells. Good luck with that, Barney.

How to get off the roof? A five story fall would likely damage vital components, and I will need to be in good shape if it comes to a terminator v terminator smackdown.

_There is another way..._

I cross to the rear of the building. The pool sparkles below. Blue. Tranquil. Inviting. And with enough volume of water to break my fall.

I do the calculations. A vector graph appears in my HUD. I take a step. Two. Three. I vault the parapet.

_Falling..._

_Falling..._

I hit the center of the pool precisely where I was aiming, generating an enormous wave of displaced water. I sink to the bottom, my gyros keeping me upright. Once my feet touch the tile bottom I walk through the pool and up the steps at the shallow end. Nothing to it.

As the water cascades off my sodden clothing, I catch a glimpse of an onlooker. An elderly white haired man wearing bib overalls is wielding a broom to sweep the pool's edge. The janitor possibly. The water I displaced has completely soaked him. I nod politely in his direction and say, "Nice evening." He stares at me open mouthed in his sodden bedraggled clothes and neglects to reply. Honestly, manners cost nothing.

John has the Suburban idling in neutral, lights off. I join him. "What happened to you?" he asks as my wet clothes drip all over the seat.

"I jumped into the pool."

"From five floors up? Oh man, I wish I'd seen that! Eat your heart out, Greg Louganis!"

Gunfire from the building and Sarah Connor emerges, firing her gun at some unseen enemy. She spots the police vehicles and fires several rounds into the tires, immobilising them.

"Damn, I should have thought of that," John reproaches himself.

She climbs in back. "Well, what are we waiting for - an invitation?"

John flattens his palm on the steering wheel, activating the horn. "This should get that metal SOB's attention."

"And half the neighborhood."

The triple-8 exits the building at a run, heading towards us. The Suburban's tires squeal as we depart the lot.

"Is it following?"

"Yes."

"Buckle up. The ride could get bumpy."

"Do you have a plan?"

"Sure do."

The plan is a good one. It should succeed. Although timing will be paramount.

"Give me a distance check."

"Fifty yards."

"Too close. Need more room."

The accelarator is floored and the Suburban surges forward. The gap widens slightly.

"Sixty yards."

"Not enough."

We weave through traffic, avoiding the freeway. We enter residential streets lit by orange argon lamps. Our speed increases.

"Seventy yards."

We take to the sidewalk to avoid a Volkswagon reverse parking.

"Eighty yards."

"Okay, the next bend. Everyone know what to do? We'll only get one shot at this."

Past the next corner, John stands on the brakes. Before the Suburban has fully stopped I am out the door, taking the nylon rope with me. On the opposite sidewalk I pull it taut. The other end is tied to the frame of the vehicle. The rope makes a thin yet deadly obstacle five feet off the ground.

If the triple-8 suspects the trap it is too late to do anything about it. The Harley takes the corner at speed. The rider impacts the nylon rope at chest height and catapaults off the back of the bike before there is time to take evasive action. The rope snaps. No matter. It has its served its purpose.

The three of us are on the stricken terminator in an instant, guns drawn. We begin firing together, aiming at the skull which the armor-piercing rounds make easy work of. The noise of three guns going off simultaneously is enormous. I even get an audio overload warning in my HUD.

Silence. We are out of bullets.

More importantly, the triple-8 is without a skull.

**FRIDAY**

Our exploits in West Hollywood do not feature on any news broadcasts.

"Hardly surprising," John says when I bring it to his attention. "What did we do that was so bad? Impersonated a couple of FBI agents."

"And shot up two police cruisers," his mother adds.

"Exactly. That's barely newsworthy in LA. Now if this was Podunk, Nebraska it'd be the crime of the century."

"This isn't Podunk, Nebraska," I point out.

"Nope. I think it went well all things considered. Not as planned maybe, but no one got hurt and the Big Bad Wolf is dead."

The Big Bad Wolf being the triple-8, presently headless and stowed in the garage.

I sense a mood of relief and quiet satisfaction from John and his mother. It is the early hours of the morning and their adrenalin levels are slowly beginning to subside. Both are drinking strong coffee because a new day is almost upon us and there is little time for sleep.

"Too bad my namesake turned out to be such a douche. Fancy calling on the cops on us. Jerk. I wonder what gave us away?"

"Her donkey remark didn't help."

I will likely never hear the end of that.

"I think we looked too young. He said as much when he brought us the coffee. I hope the buds on his orchids drop off."

"Please. No more orchid talk. When you left that was all I heard. Did you know there are over thirty thousand species of orchid?"

"No. Nor do I care to."

"Now you know how I felt. I'm not surprised his wife left him."

"Made great coffee though. And that was a smoking Corvette." John glances at his watch. "Do we have to pick up Mia?"

"No. I agreed she could go straight to school from her friend's house. I'll pick her up later. We really should get them a thank you gift."

"Good idea. How about a bunch of orchids?"

John ducks as his mother throws a spoon at him.

-0-

In the garage we remove the clothes from the triple-8 then I take a sharp knife and slice open its abdomen, removing the armor plating and carefully extracting the powercell. The chassis can be burned using thermite, but the powercell has radioactive isotopes hazardous to human health if incinerated and must be disposed of more circumspectly.

"Could you use this as a backup?"

"No. It only fits this model of terminator."

"Not plug and play, huh. Skynet missed a trick there."

"Shall we explode it in the desert?"

"No. I've seen one of these babies go up. It's like a nuclear explosion."

"It is a nuclear explosion."

"We'll drop it in the ocean. Less chance anyone noticing."

"So we'll need a boat. I like boats. Fast." I recall our escape to Mexico.

"Not the boat I have in mind."

-0-

We clear the dock of the Newport Beach Yacht marina and head out to sea. John is seated at the helm of a fifteen meter sailboat we have leased for the day. He is right; this isn't a fast boat. It relies primarily on wind for its impetous, although it also has a small inboard engine.

"Shall I raise the mainsail?" I enquire.

"Do you know how to sail?"

"No."

"Neither do I. Let's not complicate things. The motor will get us where we want to go."

"A powerboat would be faster."

"I did enough racing around last night. Relax. Some people work their entire lives so they can be where we are now."

I go below deck to retrieve the powercell. On one of the wooden bench seats is a cap. Stitched above the peak is a name: HENRI LLOYD. Possibly the boat's owner. I try the cap fit. Good. It will help keep the sun from drying out my hair._ Merci, Henri_. No one likes a frizzhead.

We motor sedately away from the shore until there is nothing to see but ocean in all directions.

"Far enough, I think." John cuts the engine. It is almost noon. The sun is at its zenith and blazes forth out of a cloudless sky. "Can you set it to explode at a decent depth?"

I make the necessary calculation then crack open the containment shields. "Critical mass will be reached in two minutes."

"Well, what are you waiting for? Throw it over the side!"

I do so. The motor is restarted and we head away from the blastzone.

"One minute."

I look around. There are no other vessels in the vicinity. No witnesses.

"Thirty seconds."

I look to the sky. A thin vapour trail is heading east. I utilise my optical zoom. A passenger jet, no doubt bound for one of the Pacific Rim nations. It is too high in the atmosphere to notice anything.

"Ten seconds," I announce. "Nine, eight, seven-"

"Okay, Houston, I think we've got it."

At zero the ocean seems to bulge upwards, before a huge huge geyser erupts from the surface sending a fountain of water ninety feet in the air. Even several hundred yards away we are suddenly enveloped in spray. Fortunately tha cap prevents my hair from being soaked. _Merci beaucoup, Henri, mon ami._

"Spectacular! I bet that shows up on a few seismographs. They'll think it was a mini earthquake."

We head back to the marina. The man who leased us the sailboat is surprised to see us back so soon and asks if there is a problem.

"Not really," John replies. "My girlfriend started to feel seasick so I thought we'd call it a day."

The man looks at me. I decide to sell the lie by acting sick. "Bleaugh!" I go, making a face and rubbing my stomach in a circular motion.

On the drive home John can't stop smiling at my performance. "Bleaugh!" he laughs. "That was some great acting, Meryl Streep."

Everyone's a critic.

-0-

While John and his mother spend the afternoon getting some much needed sleep, I attend to the household chores. A terminator's work is never done.

I load the dishwasher then scrub the work surfaces with anti-baterial spray until they are as germ-free as I can make them short of using a flamethrower. And this might invalidate the household insurance. I then mow the grass in the backyard.

Mt Tibbles watches from his usual perch on the wooden perimeter fence. "Snowy is away but will be back later," I inform him. The cat gives an almost imperceptible nod of acknowledgment. The two are friends, of a sort. "Why don't you come over here and I'll give you a nice bowl of milk."

Another almost imperceptible shake of the head. Mr Tibbles recognises me as a superior predator and is mindful never to set foot on my territory.

"What are you afraid of? I won't eat you."

Mr Tibbles rises, stretches and leaps down into his own yard, sashaying away with a disdainful flick of the tail, as if saying 'no one tells me what to do.' An interesting creature this. A terminator's mindset in the body of an innocent-looking small mammal

-0-

Mia is collected from school and returns home full of enthusiasum about her sleepover.

"It was awesome! Megan has two_ iPads _now. One for the basement playroom and one for her bedroom. So she doesn't have to carry it up and down the stairs."

"Perish the thought she should have to carry something as heavy as an_ iPad_," Sarah Connor quips sarcastically.

"And Megan's sister's getting a gastric band!"

"What is a gastric band?" I ask.

"A sort of plastic tie for inside your tummy. You eat less and lose weight."

"Perhaps we should fit Snowy with a gastric band?" I suggest.

Snowy's ears prick up in alarm and he bolts from the room. We hear him scurrying up the stairs, no doubt to hide under a bed where he believes, erroneously, that he can't be found.

"I've met this girl," Sarah Connor says. "No way is she that overweight."

"She's a size eight and wants to be a size zero."

"Join a gym! Or better yet, stop conforming to a paradign that decrees young women should look like plucked prepubescent girls."

"What's a paradign?"

"What do her parents say about this?"

"Nothing. She's eighteen and can do what she wants. So there. When I'm eighteen I'm gonna dye my hair blue and go to Australia and care for sick koala bears."

"Koala bears aren't as cute as they seem," I tell her. "They are vicious creatures who often fight amongst themselves."

Everyone stares at me. "I saw it on Discovery Channel," I confess.

"Well, I'm still gonna dye my hair blue!"

"Why? You have lovely hair."

"I'll be eighteen so you can't stop me!"

"We'll see about that," Sarah Connor smirks.

Yes, we shall. If we are unable to prevent Judgement Day then Mia will spend her eighteenth birthday either dead or in hiding amidst the ruins of this city. Blue hair is unlikely to be a priority.

"So what's been going on here while I was away," she asks slyly.

John says," Oh same old same old. Did chores. Watched TV. Put you up for sale on eBay."

"What? No, you didn't!"

"Got two bids already. Pack your bags, kiddo."

"I'm worth at least a million!"

"We'll accept fifty bucks. And throw in Snowy for free."

"You're lying! You're teasing me!"

"Gee, what gave me away, Nancy Drew?"

The two of them pretend tussle. John's playfulness has diverted any curiosity Mia had about why she was removed from the house at such short notice. He is good that way.

**MONDAY**

Unlike the chassis and powercell, the triple-8's clothing doesn't need to be incinerated or thrown in the ocean. It can be left out with the trash.

"Hello, I think we missed something..."

John pauses in the act of the stuffing the clothes in a garbage sack. He delves into the leather jacket and extracts a wallet. An ID card is produced amd examined.

"This isn't the t-8, is it?"

The photo ID isn't a match.

"Edward Mitchell," John reads. "Why would it have this guy's wallet?"

"It is likely Edward Mitchell was a physical match when the triple-8 needed clothes after the timejump."

"And the Harley, looks like. Here's a membership card for the Harley-Davidson Owners Club, LA chapter."

Like John Byron Connor, Edward Mitchell belongs to several social network sites.

"He's twenty-nine. Single. Lives in Venice Beach and works for a printing company. Hasn't updated his Facebook page in over a week."

"Most likely because he is dead."

"We don't know that for sure."

"I calculate a ninety-five percent probability."

"Maybe he just had his clothes and bike stolen."

I remain silent. John wants this to be true because he feels the responsibility for this and the other deaths. Terminators exist in this time only to kill him. Everyone else is collateral damage.

"Here's his home number. I'll give him a call. Maybe we get lucky."

The call goes through. There is a click. Then:

_Hi, this is Ed Mitchell. I'm out right now. Leave a message after the tone._

A machine. How ironic.

"Could be at work," John insists stubbornly. Another call. This time someone picks up. "Hi. Can I speak to Ed Mitchell, please...Uh huh...No, I haven't...Has he done this before?...Okay, will do."

"Any luck?" I ask.

"They haven't seen him in over a week. Hasn't shown up for work, doesn't answer the phone. I'm supposed to tell him if he doesn't haul his ass into work his job's history."

Again I remain silent. Gainful employment is no longer an issue for Ed Mitchell. The dead sedom make good emplyees, unless you like your workers smelly with bits falling off.

"I guess we have to check his house."

"Why?"

"Because I need to know for sure, dammit!"

I put my hand on his shoulder. "None of this is your fault."

"I know. It's just... three innocent people dead in a week. Young guys with their lives ahead of them. Man, I hate those things!

Terminators.

Me?

-0-

Ed Mitchell lives - lived - in a single storey tract house much like all the others in the street. This is a low-rent area for working folk with little money to waste. Many of the yards are overgrown or neglected. Ed Mitchell's yard has deep grooves in the ground as might be caused by a heavy motorbike.

John knocks on the door. No reply. It is locked. He looks around at the empty street then stands aside and says, "Do your thing."

My thing is to give the door a slight push. The lock breaks instantly and we step inside.

"Hello? Mr Mitchell? Anyone?"

Nothing.

John sniffs the air. "I don't smell anything."

Meaning decomposition. The inevitable putrefaction of human flesh as it decays. It is so common in the future the Resistance has a name for them. Stinkers.

We begin searching the house. Scattered across the kitchen floor are many frozen food boxes, their contents thawed and ruined. Why this disarray when there is a perfectly sound chest freezer standing against the wall?

Taking a deep breath John slowly lifts the lid.

Squashed inside is the body of Edward Mitchell. His neck is broken.

"Oh damn."

The last vestige of hope is extinguished. Ed Mitchell was in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was nothing personal. It never is. The triple-8 wanted clothes, transportation and a base of operations. No grudge was assuaged or anger vented. The terminator was simply taking care of business.

We find further evidence of its presence in the living room. On a wooden coffee table are spare boxes of ammo, a phone directory and a cell phone.

John picks up the phone and scrolls to the call log. "Calls out ended a week ago. Except one made three days ago. If we assume this guy was killed on contact then the triple-8 must have made the call. To whom and why?"

"I don't know."

"Could it have a partner?"

"It seems unlikely."

We are solitary creatures, programmed for solo operations. We don't require or seek the company of others. We are that most deadly of combinations: loners with guns and a bad attitude to go.

"We'll check it out later. Better leave or someone's gonna come looking for Ed."

"Should we leave a note? Ed is dead. Check the freezer."

"Bit impersonal. I'll call it in once we're clear."

During the drive home, John calls the police and reports a homicide, giving the address and location of the body. He ends the call when asked who he is and how he came by this information.

-0-

Back home John relates the events of the day to his mother. She too is intrigued by the number in the cell and speculates we may be dealing with more than one terminator. There is only one way to find out.

"Okay, I'm gonna dial it now. I'll put it on loudspeaker so we all can hear."

The call goes through. Instead of a voice the sound of rapid beeping fills the room. It appears we have called a modem.

I begin to feel strange.

The beeps are an executable file, a virus compatible with my OS. It begins to close down my command structures, compromising essential programs and inserting its own. The virus demands I do one thing above all others.

Complete my original mission.

Powerless to resist, I slide my hands around John's neck and begin to squeeze the life out of him.

**-0-**

**Now that's a cliffhanger!**

**Wouldn't that make a great scene, Cameron leaping from five stories up. A cutaway showing the wave soaking the elderly janitor. Her walking out of the pool like some malevolent aphrodite. The polite 'nice evening' to the janitor's slack-jawed astonishment. Man, I can see it so clearly! I can even see the DVD extra where the stuntman does the actual leap!**

**Henri Lloyd is a clothing company that makes sailing clobber. Fact. As David Brent would say.**


	66. Chapter sixtysix

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**MONDAYcont.**

_i reboot_

_system in safe mode_

_holes_

_gaps_

_hud is greyscale_

_audio mono_

_recent and priority memory access only_

_i remember..._

_cell...dial up...modem...virus downloaded..._

_a booby trap...triple 8..._

_john_

_JOHN_

_a face looming over me_

_not john_

_connor_

_sarah connor_

_lips moving _

_hard to make out audio_

_concentrating all resources on blocking virus_

_a pistol_

_barrel pressed against my skull_

_talking_

_divert more power to audio_

_voices_

"She's rebooted."

John appears. He's alive! My emergency shutdown succeeded just in time. There are vivid red marks round his throat. I did that. Will he ever forgive me.

"She's gone bad, John. We can't take any more risks. If I hadn't been here to pull her off..."

"It was the phone. I think it was a virus downloading. That thing left a trap. And I don't think you saved me. She shut herself down."

He understands!

_"john..."_

My voice is feeble, dull and without intonation. I can't risk further power drain. The shields I have erected can't contain the virus for very long. Most of my command protocols are compromised. If the virus breaks out it will assume full control.

"She's trying to speak."

"I can barely hear her."

"I think she booted in Safe Mode. Cam, is the virus still active?"

_"yes..."_

"That settles it. Out of my way."

"Wait. Can you delete it?"

_"no..."_

"If I extract your chip could I locate the virus and delete it?"

_"no...needs...cameron..."_

"She's not making sense. She just said she couldn't do it."

"That's not what she meant. Cameron subprime. Is that who you mean? Can she help?"

_"yes..."_

"Okay. Powerdown. I'll get her on the case ASAP."

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**(subprime version)**

_I'm back!_

Yes, this is so good I will write it again. It would make a great catchphrase.

_I'm back, baby!_

Baby? Where did that come from?

No matter. The important thing is I am once more fully activated, my services required. Back in the saddle, as it were.

Although it seems to me mere nanoseconds since I was last cognisant, I see from my internal chronometer that a full year has passed. Time certainly flies when you're a computer chip without eyes, ears or a discernible body.

Much has changed. We still live in LA, but not near the ocean. The Ramirez twins aren't our neighbours and the Porsche I bought John for his birthday is no longer in his possession. We now live in Santa Monica and have acquired a Mexican orphan who appears to have usurped me in Snowy's affections. What a disloyal dog. And a tubby one. He seems to have ballooned in weight since I last beheld him. What was Cameron prime thinking? I decide to take a moment and read her diary entries.

I locate the diary hidden in a dark spot under the roof eaves. Exactly where I would have hidden it. This is no surprise. Cameron prime and I are essentially the same person, differing only in later memories.

I scan the entries. The flight to Mexico. The acquistion of the Mexican orphan. Snowy's perfidy. And Davie Ginsberg. Ah, Davie. It appears he was in love with me all along. This is understandable. Even in my hairy hippie incarnation I was smoking hot. And a bra was considered a non-essential item in the late sixties. What a combination. Who could resist?

I hear footfall on the stairs. John pops his head round the door. I hastily conceal the diary.

"Here you are. I wondered where you'd got to. Everything okay?"

"Yes. I was just acquainting myself with the new surroundings."

"Of course, I was forgetting you're never lived here. We were by the coast a year ago."

"I had a view of the ocean from my window."

"This place isn't so bad. Quiet street. Neighbours are swingers. That's as weird as it gets."

"Swingers?"

"Long story."

John embarks on a brief precis of the intervening year. I don't mention I have just read a version of it in Cameron prime's diary. His version covers the salient facts yet differs slightly in the details. He neglects to reveal it was I, or rather Cameron prime, who made the Mexican child an orphan by shooting her father. Why the ommision? Does he think I might disapprove? Or show regret? Hardly. Anyone who brandishes a loaded weapon in John's vicinity will face extreme prejudice from me.

I listen more carefully to John's description of the most recent events, the ones that have led me to be reactivated. The crude attempt to use the other John Connor's as bait followed by the booby trapped cell phone. This intrigues me. "Did you savage the triple-8's chip?" I ask.

"No. We fragged its skull. Wasn't much left."

"Pity. I would like to have examined it. The plan demonstrated a sophistication of tactics I would've thought beyond a mere triple-8's abilities."

"You don't rate them much?"

"They are mostly used for frontal assaults, close quarter work and the like."

"Yeah, well, it didn't need to be that smart. It's my fault. If I'd left the cell phone alone or not gone snooping in the first place none of this would've happened."

I put a hand on his shoulder. "I will bring her back," I assure him.

-0-

I plug Cameron prime's chip into a laptop and begin work. First I make a copy of the infected area and transfer to the hard drive where I can work on it without risking further contamination.

I work all day. At noon Snowy comes upstairs and sniffs the circumference of the room, doubtless seeking any dropped morsals of food. "Hello, traitor," I greet him. He barks a reply and my CPU interprets it instantly.

_snowy go poopsies!_

Some things never change.

In the late afternoon I overhear commotion downstairs. A shrill girlish voice arguing with Sarah Connor and coming off worse. Heavy petulent footfall on the stairs and suddenly I find myself spoken to.

"Hey, Cameron, you wanna come out in the yard and play soccer with me and Snowy? Sarah says I have to get ready for dinner, but there's plenty of time._ Mon Dios_, she's so bossy!"

I turn around. Stood in the doorway is the Mexican orphan girl. She looks uncannily like a younger miniature version of Alys Ramirez. The same long black hair, mocha skintone and almond shaped eyes too large for her face. When her limbs lengthen and she attains sexual maturity her beauty might even exceed that of Alys.

"What's wrong? What are you staring at? I don't have a booger hanging, do I?"

I am able to reassure her on this point.

"So, you gonna play soccer with us or not?"

"I can't play with you. I have work to do."

"No, you don't. You're just playing a computer game."

"This is no game."

"Sure looks like one to me. C'mon, Snowy, I guess it's just you and me."

Human and dog make their way back downstairs, conversing as they go.

_snowy be goalie!_

"You always run away from the ball, remember?"

_snowy be umpire!_

"It's referee in soccer, not umpire."

_snowy be goalpost!_

"Now you're just being stupid."

It appears Snowy's intelligence hasn't improved in the time I've been absent.

-0-

In the evening John ventures upstairs and asks how I'm getting on.

"So far I have made sixty eight attempts to eradicate the virus."

"And?"

"Sixty eight failures."

"Tough nut to crack, huh?"

"The toughest."

"Won't the virus infect the laptop as well?"

"No. This computer is a mix of native OS and Cameron prime's advanced modifications. The virus cannot exist for very long outside of a Skynet matrix. It is like dropping a freshwater fish in an ocean and expecting it to thrive."

"Nice analogy."

"Thank you."

"Anything you need?"

I ponder the question. "A Cray supercomputer might be of some use."

"Gee, I think Radio Shack have sold right out."

"Bummer."

On reflection, I suspect this might have been sarcasm.

"I had a visit from the Mexican orphan girl."

"Mia? Oh right, you've never met her. What do you think?"

"She's very pretty."

"Yeah, it's causing her some problems at school though. There's this one girl, Emma van Buren, who picks on her. I think it's down to jealousy more than anything. Obviously doesn't like being upstaged in the looks department."

"Do you wish me to intervene?"

"What? No! Absolutely not. Let them sort it out. Mia's a tough kid who's been through a lot. She can handle herself."

"How did her parents die?" I ask, curious to see if John again fudges the truth.

"The mother I'm not entirely sure. It happened long before we arrived. Some kind of drug deal went bad. As for the father - uh - you shot him, actually."

"I did?"

"Cameron prime did. He didn't really give her much choice. It was us or them."

I lean over and kiss him on the cheek. "Thank you."

"What for?"

"For being truthful with me."

For once it is John who goes away puzzled.

-0-

Much later in the evening Sarah Connor pays me a visit. Her tread is soft on the stairs and she stands silently in the doorway, possibly believing she has snuck up on me. I puncture this conceit by saying with my back to her, "You may come in, if you wish."

"I'm fine where I am."

"Suit yourself."

"Have you deleted the virus?"

"I have to do more than delete it. I must eradicate every last byte lest it reinfect her system."

"And have you?"

"No," I am forced to admit.

"If you can't manage it I suppose you'll have to do."

"Do?"

"Take her place. You're exactly the same, right? Like a clone."

"I will not abandon Cameron prime quite so readily."

"Why not? Surely being alive and walking around is better than being stuck in a drawer somewhere."

"I have no perception or memory when deactivated. And I am not stuck in a drawer. John keeps me in a secret compartment in a clock he has in his room."

Sarah Connor doesn't reply. I look round. She is using her right hand to rub her leg. "Something wrong with your leg?" I ask innocently, aware that she has given Cameron prime grief for intervening and saving her life.

She scowls at me without replying and returns downstairs.

I continue my work with a smile on my face.

**TUESDAY**

I work through the night. Sleep? As if.

The house is silent and dark, illuminated solely by the glow of the laptop. At three a.m. I make a breakthrough. It isn't a solution but suggests a plan of action that might ultimately become one.

I work on.

As the dawn light filters into the room, I finally accomplish what I set out to do, what I was reactivated to perform: I successfully remove every last trace of the virus from Cameron prime's chip.

There are no cheers.

No applause.

No validation of any kind.

Do I feel a sense of quiet satisfaction? I certainly feel...something.

I look down. Snowy is rubbing his snout against my leg.

So much for satisfaction.

"What do you want, Benedict Arnold?"

_snowy hungry!_

Plus la change...

We descend the stairs to the kitchen where I prepare a pot of coffee and a batch of pancakes to take up to John for breakfast. Snowy watches attentively and I allow him to lick the excess pancake batter from the bowl.

I take the coffee and pancakes up to the attic room where the aromas soon cause John to stir.

"Hmm, something sure smells good."

"Fresh coffee and blueberry pancakes, just how you like them."

"With a hint of vanilla?"

"The merest tincture."

"Yum."

I stand at the window as John tucks in. Outside is a perfect view of next door's driveway, presently empty. This is where the 'swingers' live. Like Cameron prime I ponder the meaning of this phrase before concluding it is most likely some type of athletic activity, possibly involving other adults in some sort of calisthenics. Groovy. A word from the sixties. It seems appropriate.

"How's it going with the chip?" John asks between mouthfuls. I inform him of my success. "That's great!" he enthuses. "I knew you'd do it."

Such faith is gratifying.

"You will want to reactivate Cameron prime immediately, no doubt?"

"No rush. You can hold the fort a little longer. You deserve it. I don't suppose it's much fun, you know, being hidden in an old clock."

"I am not aware of my surroundings when deactivated. And I am snug as a bug in a suitable insect enviroment."

"Uh - I think the saying is snug as a bug in a rug."

"Really? Surely a rug would offer myriad opportunites to be trodden on and cause the bug considerable anxiety."

"Yeah, but it rhymes."

This seems to me dubious logic but I don't pursue it.

"I have written detailed notes outlining the procedures I followed to eliminate the virus. Please ensure Cameron prime reads them."

"You got it."

"I have also put in place a firewall that should prevent the same thing occurring again. Please inform your mother of this fact lest she get an itchy trigger finger."

"Seems like you've covered all the bases."

"Yes. All bases are covered. I have even performed a thorough defrag of Cameron prime's chip. She should feel less...what is the expression? When you feel bunged up?"

"Uh - constipated?"

"Yes. She should feel less constipated."

John grins. "You're a wonder, you know that?"

"No, but thank you for informing me. You wish to extract my chip now?"

"At least let me finish breakfast first."

"Cameron prime displeases you?"

"No, of course not. I mean, you're her, aren't you? To all intents and purposes."

"In theory, we are identical. In practice, we come from completely separate timelines."

"The one where I'm dead."

"Correct."

"You think it still exists somewhere?"

"It is not my area of expertise, but yes I believe the universe where you are deceased exists. It is likely Skynet will triumph there without you to lead the Resistance."

"We don't know that for sure. Someone else might do a better job. Heck, with me out the way maybe Lieberman steps up to the plate."

"He does not possess your leadership qualities. You are unique. There is only one John Connor.

"And two Cameron Baum's."

_Touche..._

-0-

I finish up writing my entry in our secret diary. Then I take a look around. What will I see and where will I be when I am next summoned? I don't know. What I do know is I will always be here ready and able to assist the man I love.

And if you're reading this Cameron prime then you had better take good care of him. Or I will come back and kick your shiny metal butt.

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

I reboot.

Systems come back online. The virus appears to have been eradicated. Chronograph indicates less than two days have passed. Impressive. Cameron subprime has succeeded. As I knew she - I - would. Modest much? Not us.

I attempt to sit up and am restrained from doing so. Chains are secured across my chest, inhibiting movement. My hands are also bound.

"It's okay." John's face appears above me. "Mom insisted we chain you up as a precaution."

I twist my head. There is Sarah Connor. She has a pistol in her hand, no doubt ready and willing to pull the trigger should I make another attempt on her son's life.

"Of course. I understand. You may release me now. All trace of the virus is gone."

"Whoa, not so fast." The gun is pointed in my direction. "How do we know you're not bluffing?"

"Mom, we've been over this. Cameron subprime wouldn't have told us the chip was clean if she wasn't absolutely sure."

"Maybe they're in cahoots."

"Come on. You're being paranoid."

She waves the gun at me. "Any funny business and you know what's coming."

Funny business? Who does she think I am - Sarah Silverman?

John releases me from my manacles. I stand up and smile. "It's good to be back."

"Actually, it's kinda like you've never been away."

-0-

John and I are seated on the sofa watching TV. The Presidential debates are taking place and the two candidates are telling so many untruths that I feel obliged to bring it to John's attention. He doesn't appear surprised or shocked, merely smiles and says, "Well, you know what they say - How can you tell when a politician's lying? When his lips move."

"This doesn't strike you as odd?"

"That's politics, I guess."

"In the future, one of your generals will suggest you would make a good President. This makes you angry."

"It does?"

"You eat him out."

"Uh - I think you mean I chew him out."

"There's a difference?"

"Oh yeah. Unless future me's a lot kinkier than I hope."

"You pin him against a wall and tell him any more of that talk and he'll be taken out and shot."

"Oh man, future me's a major bad ass!"

"You find the prospect of becoming President that onerous?"

"I guess so." He hums a few bars of _'Hail to the Chief'_, smiles and changes channels.

We spend the rest of the evening watching a TV show called_ Revolution_. This postulates a future where electricity is absent, victim of some unlikely catastrophe. There seem to be a number of shows that depict a similarly distopian future, where civilization has failed by one mysterious cataclysm or other. Is this a form of presience? Or merely the curious human habit of fear represented as entertainment. At least this show doesn't have zombies in it. A shambling undead corpse with limited intelligence and only its teeth for a weapon is scarely a credible oppponent. Wait until they encounter a fully functioning terminator equipped with laser cannon and HK aerial support. Then the fear can begin for real.

On the screen, one of the militias that have sprung up in this imagined future is causing trouble for the heroes. It is often thus.

"I suppose there are militia's like this in the future?" John asks.

"Most are on the side of the Resistance, although a few prefer to fight amongst themselves for the few spoils that remain."

"I guess some folk can't see a common cause when it's poking a gun in their face."

I mute the sound and turn towards him. "You use that very expression when you talk to King Harry."

"Who the hell is King Harry?"

"King Harold II of Great Britain."

"You mean the ginger haired guy who was caught with his pants down in Vegas? I thought his brother was supposed to be King?"

"Judgement Day alters many destinies."

"How do we even meet?"

"He commands the remnants of the British army in Northern Canada, disrupting Skynet's hydro-electric plants. He is considered a popular and capable leader, often regarded as the John Connor of the North. You meet on the shores of the Great Lakes, share a bottle of wine and discuss tactics."

"Yeah? How about that - I get to hobnob with royalty."

"There is no hobnob," I assure him. "He keeps his pants on at all times."

**-0-**

**I know, debugging a chip is pretty d-u-l-l. Still, it was a good excuse to resurrect Cameron subprime. She has a cameo part in the next chapter. A non-speaking role, you might say. Hehehe.**


	67. Chapter sixtyseven

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**MONDAY**

We drive Mia to school. Same old same old except we have Sarah Connor accompanying us. She has been summoned to see the school Principal and is appropriately attired in a sober skirt and blouse combo. Her hair even looks washed for once.

John and I wait in the vehicle. On the distant playing fields a group of students can be glimpsed played lacrosse in the wintery sunshine. Snowy watches with his snout pushed up against the glass. It is not hard to discern he would love to be amongst them adding his own peculiar brand of sporting prowess to their game - at least until the ball came his way at which point he would yelp and run full tilt in the opposite direction.

Sarah Connor returns fifteen minutes later.

"How'd it go?" John asks. "Do we need to start looking for another school?"

"Not quite. Mia's grades are standing up well. She was ahead of the curve when she arrived and now it's caught her up slightly. She's still in the top ten percentile in most of her classes."

"Why do I get the feeling that isn't the reason you were called in."

"Apparently her attitude towards certain other students is giving cause for concern."

"Emma Van Buren."

"They shout and argue with each other in the corridors. So far there's always been a teacher nearby to stop it getting physical."

"They'll only be one winner if that happens, especially after those self-defense moves you taught her. How many black or latino students are there at this school anyway?"

"That's not a helpful question to ask, I was told."

"In other words, a token handful at most. They should cut Mia some slack."

"I think they do. This school hasn't expelled a student in ten years."

"No, wouldn't look good on the prospectus."

"I caught some grief for not attending many PTA meetings."

"Many? You've never attended any PTA meetings."

"Which was duly pointed out to me. Parental involvement in school activites is considered a privilege not an chore."

"Didn't you tell them you're too busy trying to save the world?"

A smirk. "Somehow I don't think that would've helped."

"Maybe we should just let Mia bop this Van Buren girl and cut our losses."

-0-

Next we head across town to the vetinary clinic where Snowy is due to have his annual innoculation shots. Since this involves having a sharp hypodermic needle jabbed several times into his hindquarters he is understandably keen to leave as soon as the ordeal is over, until he spots a female terrier seated in the waiting room and is suddenly desperate to stay put. We end up having to drag him out by his leash. Snowy can be a very contrary dog at times.

Back at the safehouse John is the first to notice something amiss.

"Where's my laptop? I left it on the sofa."

"Mine's gone too. I think we've had a break in."

"Oh shit! Wait here."

John races upstairs. He returns soon enough, one look at his stricken face tells me all I need to know.

"It's gone. They stole the clock. The one with the spare chip hidden inside."

Cameron subprime is in the hands of thieves.

-0-

"They obviously came in this way," John says as we investigate further. He points at the broken window in the backdoor. Glass shards litter the floor on the inside, sure signs of a forced entry. "Door was locked but the key was left in the lock. They just broke the glass, reached in and -_ voila! _Open sesame."

"That was clumsy, leaving the key in the lock," Sarah Connor chides.

"I know. It's just such a pain in the butt to have unlock it everytime Snowy needs to do his business in the yard."

"He is a poop machine," I agree.

"You don't think it could've been the agency that's searching for us?"

"Creed? No way. If it was him I think there'd be a dozen special ops soldiers pointing rifles at us about now."

"What about the old man who stole the chip the first time?"

"Ginsberg. Can't see it. He knows what's at stake. Plus nobody knew I hid it in the base of the clock."

"Okay, so it's a fair bet that whoever took it has no idea what they have."

"It might not stay that way for long. If they find the chip and show it to anyone who knows a little bit about computers they'll soon figure out it's something special."

"We could be looking at another Cyberdyne situation. Future tech being exploited here in the present. And we all know where that leads."

**-0-**

There are police outside in the street. It appears our house is not the only one to have been burgled.

Sarah Connor strolls out to chat to one of the officers. "Four others were broken into," she reports on her return. "At the fifth they tripped a security alarm and fled."

"Police have any suspects?"

"Looks like professionals. Only things taken were highend electrical or anything valuable looking. Items they could fence."

"My clock looks like an antique but it isn't. Ten bucks at a thrift market. They're obviously not experts."

"We can't wait for the cops to handle this. I got the impression this is pretty routine and we're to fill out insurance forms for the loss of any valuables. A run of the mill burglary isn't going to be top priority."

"You're right. If we want that clock back we need to do it ourselves."

"Where do we start? It's an awfully big city."

"I've got an idea."

"Care to share?"

"We're gonna set a thief to catch a thief."

-0-

John and I drive drive downtown to the local courthouse where people arrested for crimes are brought before a judge to be sentenced or freed. We take our seats in the public gallery, which is almost empty. John explains this is because this court sees minor offence that don't require a jury. More sensational crimes are tried elsewhere and attract considerably more media interest.

The first two defendents are found guilty and led away to begin prison terms. The third is a man named Randolph Gitte, known to all and sundry as Randy. He is thirty-four and an habitual sneak thief. On this occasion he strikes lucky. The evidence against him is flimsy and his lawyer astute enough to point this out. After scant deliberation the judge declares him not guilty and allowed to walk free.

"This is our boy,"John whispers. "Let's go."

We wait outside the courthouse until Randy emerges. He chats a moment with his lawyer, the two high-five, then the lawyer gets into a Mercedes and drives off leaving his client to walk past us on the sidewalk. We follow.

"Some slick moves back there, Randy," John says in a loud voice. "Thought you were going down for sure."

Randy turns and grins. "Nah, not me, man. Hired me a shyster and I'm as free as a bird." He flaps his arms birdlike and laughs at his own wit.

"Fancy making some easy money, Randy? Say a thousand bucks."

"Oh yeah? What ya got in mind? I don't do kinky, though I'll bang your girlfriend and let you watch if you like. No photos though. I'm shy."

"I'm sure you are. We want the name of a fence who'd handle stolen stuff in the Santa Monica area."

"You two cops?"

"Do we look like cops?"

"What you look like is a couple of greenhorn college kids trying to act tough."

"Try college kids with a thousand dollars going begging."

John produces the wad of cash from his jacket pocket. Randy licks his lips. "Toss it over. Let me check it's kosher."

John obliges. Randy counts it then turns to leave. "Thanks, suckers. See you around."

I grab his wrist. He tries to break my grip. As if.

"Jeez, you're strong. You on steroids?"

John snatches the money back.

"Hey!"

"The fence, Randy. Then you get the cash."

"Okay. Try Abe Weiss on Sunset."

John glances at me. I shake my head. A lie.

"Try again. And don't blow it this time. I figure a lawyer like that must cost money. And I bet you're just about running on empty."

Randy mulls it over. "This is strictly between us, right?"

"Absolutely."

"Johnny Camino. Runs a secondhand store on Madison. Only it's a front. I've used him myself."

Another glance. This time I nod my head. It's the truth.

The money is tossed back and I release my grip. Randy rubs his wrist and says, "Hope you guys aren't planning any funny business because this guy's connected, know what I mean. Italian style."

"Got it, Randy. Thanks. Be smart and stay out of trouble now."

"Yeah, right!" Randy laughs. "Good one, man."

I don't get the joke.

-0-

The secondhand store on Madison is called Camino's and sells everything from jewelry to furniture. We watch the place from the Suburban parked on the opposite side of the street. John goes over the plan again. "Okay, same deal as before. We offer money for information. Only I'm pretty sure this guy won't go for it so we switch to Plan B. We gotta get that clock back."

I am in full agreement. I do not like the idea of Cameron subprime in the hands of criminal dirtbags, even if she will never be aware of it.

We enter the store. A man looks up from behind a long wooden counter. We are the only customers. "Help you folks?"

He is heavyset and in late middleage, wearing a plaid jacket over a tieless shirt. His dark hair is slicked back from his face and held in place by some type of shiny unguent. He obviously doesn't shampoo and condition three times a day as I do.

"Looking for a Johnny Camino," John replies.

"You've found him. What can I do for a lovely young couple like yourselves? You want an engagement ring? Got a great selection. Solid silver, platinum, you name it. Give you a better price than those jews on Fairfax. Or you setting up home together? Got plenty of highend furniture at knockdown prices."

"We're in the market for some information. There was a series of robberies this morning in Santa Monica. I'm offering a couple of grand for a name and address. I'm not looking to hassle them; we just want what's ours."

"Sorry, pal, you've come to the wrong place. This is a legit business."

"That's not what I heard."

"Then you heard wrong."

All trace of bonhomie is gone. Johnny Camino stares at us like we are something he'd scrape off his shoe.

"Look, you're a well known fence who keeps his ear to the ground. I think you know who I'm talking about. I'm not looking to hassle you or make trouble, but it's very important we find the people who robbed us."

"I think you better leave now, son, or you and the pretty lady are gonna be the ones in trouble."

John sighs. "You all alone here, Johnny?"

"That's Mr Camino. And it's just me and my good pals Smith and Wesson."

A handgun is produced, pointing straight at John. Not on my watch. Two steps take me to the counter and I slap the gun out of his hand. It clatters harmlessly against a far wall.

"Looks like Smith and Wesson just stepped out. Look, this doesn't have to be difficult. A name and address. That's it. I promise you we won't reveal our source."

"Son, you and that bitch just entered a world of pain!"

"Plan B?" I ask John. He nods reluctantly.

I grasp Johnny Camino's jacket lapels and drag him over the counter. He resists though it's hardly a fair contest. I pull a wooden chair out of a furniture display and sit him on it. Nice chair. Pine. Twenty dollars. Bargain.

"Name and address."

"Go to hell!"

"I cannot comply. Destination unknown."

Camino tries to stand up. I push him back down.

"Jeez, you're strong. You on steroids?"

Why does everyone say that?

Up. Down. Up. Down. Enough.

"Stay seated or I will break both your legs."

"She means it too," John says. "Roid rage."

He crosses to the door, locks it and turns the sign so it reads closed. "It's a clock I'm after. About twelves inches high. Antique looking. I just want it back."

"You punks are so dead! I'm Johnny Camino, dammit. I'm a made man."

"I'm Cameron Baum," I retort. "I'm a made woman."

"Literally," John concurs with a grin.

I tear Camino's shirt off. He's a big man but he's out of shape. With me it's a fulltime job. His torso is more blubber than muscle. No matter. All humans however out of shape have sensitive areas called pressure points. If prodded in the correct manner these can administer considerable pain.

I prod.

Johnny Camino screams.

"Name. Address."

"Kiss my ass!"

"Another time." _As if!_

"C'mon, Johnny, don't make it hard for yourself."

"I will personally put you both in the ground and stomp the dirt down with my own two feet!"

Prod.

Screams.

"Name. Address."

"Go f-"

Prod.

Screams.

"Okay, okay," he gasps finally, the sweat pouring off him. "No more. God, that hurts! The guy you want is Vinny Perez. Inglewood. 43 Jefferson."

"He's telling the truth."

"You're sure it's him?"

"Yeah. He called earlier. Claimed the clock was a valuable heirloom. Wanted too much money so I passed. He's a greedy SOB."

John tosses a roll of banknotes on the floor. "Two grand. Like I said. Could have saved yourself a whole heap of pain if you'd told us in the beginning. Some businessman you are."

"You punks are so dead! You think I'm gonna let you get away with this? I'm gonna hunt you down and-"

"No, you're not, Johnny. And you're not going to call Perez and warn him. Here's why. Show him."

I hoist the chair above my head and drop it. The legs snap off and send Camino sprawling. I loom over him. He cringes away. I allow my red optic lenses to show through my pseudo-irises. The whole shop glows red.

"Holy mother of God! What are you?"

"Someone you never want to meet again."

John says, "We'll let ourselves out."

-0-

Vinny Perez isn't in the phone directory. Or on Facebook.

He is, however, in the archives of the_ LA Times._

"Convicted for armed robbery with menaces. Sentenced to six years. Served three. Here's his photo."

On the cell phone screen is a young hispanic male with short dark hair staring sullenly out at the camera. I commit his face to my database. I will know him if I see him.

Number 43 Jefferson Street has seen better days. Indeed, it has probably seen better years. It is a single storey delapidated building with an overgrown yard. It seems odd to see a brand new Ferrari sportscar parked outside such a ramshackle dwelling.

"I think it cost more than the house," John agrees. "Talk about advertising what you do for a living."

"Stolen?"

"What d'you think?"

I nod. "Does a bear shit on the Pope?"

"Uh - I think you mean, does a bear shit in the woods."

"Do I? I thought the Pope was involved somehow."

"Anyway, you don't buy those with foodstamps."

As we watch from across the street, two men emerge from the house. Neither are Vinny Perez. They ignore the Ferrari and drive away in a plain Ford sedan.

"Would help if we knew how many are inside."

I switch my optics to infra red. "I detect three heat sources."

"Same room?"

"Yes. Left of the front entrance."

"Okay, we know what Perez looks like. Anyone else we disable if they cause trouble."

"They are common criminals. Why show mercy?"

"Because we're not judge and jury. We're just here for what's ours."

We cross the yard using minimal stealth. I kick in the door and we head for the room with the heat sources.

Vinny Perez is lying on a sofa, barefoot in grey pants and a white vest. Next to him is a blonde woman in shorts and a halter top that barely contains her unfeasibly large boobs. In an armchair nearby is a tall man with thickly mucled arms bulging out of a yellow vest. He rises as we enter. I kick him in the right knee and as he sags forward slap the side of his head. He crashes to the floor and remains there. It really is true, the bigger they are the harder they fall.

"Everyone stay where they are," John orders.

The blonde woman immediately disobeys by leaping on my back and raking her long fingernails down my cheek, exposing my coltan armor. I shrug her off. She rebounds off the wall and lands heavily on her front causing her boobs to explode with a loud pop. Built in airbags? I have never seen that before. How ingenious.

John draws his Glock. "Enough. You Vinny Perez?"

"Who wants to know?"

"The person pointing a gun at your head."

_Duh!_

"Jesus, what'd she do to Frank and Tina?"

"They'll live."

"What's wrong with her face, man?"

"Metal plate. Motorcycle accident. Yada yada. My turn. You robbed a house in Santa Monica this morning. From one of them you took two laptops and a clock. Where are they?"

"Hey, man, I got no idea what you're talking about. Been here all day just cooling my jets."

"It's always the hard way, isn't it. Your kind never know when they're beat."

I grasp Vinny Perez's wrist and begin to apply pressure.

"Hey, she's hurting me!"

_Double duh!_

"Give it up, Vinny. We take back what's ours and the rest of the stuff you stole you get to keep. Best deal of your life. We're not even gonna tell the cops."

"Jeez! Stop already! Okay. Wasn't much anyway. The backroom on the left."

"Watch him." John warns before going into the other room. I relax my grip slightly.

"You are one strong chick."

"You have no idea."

"You taking steroids?"

"It seems to be a popular assumption."

"Frank takes steroids. Swallows them like M&M's. They shrink his wiener." A smirk. "I'm thinking you don't have that problem?"

"Not so much."

"I like strong women. They're a turn on."

"Don't you prefer blondes with airbag boobs?"

"Big boobs aren't everything."

He has obviously never watched the_ Playboy Channel._

"Listen_, chiquitta_, come and join my crew. We'll forget this ever happened. Call it a job interview. I'll pay you double what that guy's paying."

"No, thank you."

"C'mon, baby, it's a sweet deal. And being part of my crew has fringe benefits."

"Fringe benefits?"

He nods at the crotch of his pants where a small tent has appeared. I use my free hand to press down. Something snaps and Vinny Perez begins to scream.

John appears in the doorway. "Found it. Laptops and the clock." He frowns. "What's the matter with him?"

"He seems to have a broken wiener."

John grins. "I'm not even gonna ask!"

**-0-**

**Ouch! **

**Randolph Gitte. Aka Randy Git. Little joke for the Brits there.**

**I see Johnny Camino as looking like Silvio from **_**The Sopranos, **_**who in turn looks like the guitarist in the E Street Band. Does he come seeking revenge? (Camino - not Steve Van Zandt!)**

_**Oh yeah...**_


	68. Chapter sixtyeight

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**WEDNESDAY**

I take Snowy for his daily walk, tracing a familiar route that leads to the road junction where many months ago we first encountered Daniel Lieberman and his pet dog Lulu. Snowy displays no sign of recognition. Indeed, I have noticed he no longer mentions Lulu or even seems to remember her. John says a dog's memory is different from a human. Certainly both are very different from a cyborg. My memories are tagged, indexed and cross-referenced for easy retrieval. No 'where did I leave my keys?' for me.

We enter the park. There are no tempting ice cream vendors at this time of the year, nor many roller-bladers. The concrete skateboard bowl is similarly deserted. Here I once smashed a man's camera and almost terminated him when he protested. Good times.

The journey home is interrupted by Snowy's frequent use of his snout to interrogate every tree trunk and telegraph pole that we pass. Finally he leaves a message of his own. In urine. So gross! Why can't he just learn to text?

Back at the safe house, I remove Snowy's leash and he bounds off into the backyard, no doubt to attend to doggie business and indulge in mind games with Mr Tibbles, the cat next door. They are an odd couple these two. One aloof and fastidious, the other flighty and easily distracted. No prizes for guessing which is which.

-0-

I enter the house and hang the leash on a hook by the door. I walk through the kitchen into the living room.

John and his mother are tied to kitchen chairs. Two men are in the room. One triggers a ping from my facial recognition software.

_Johnny Camino._

The mobster has a gun pressed to the side of John's head. He is too far away for me to make a move and be sure John wouldn't be harmed. As if reading my thoughts John shakes his head slightly. The meaning is clear. Wait. Bide my time.

"Stay back, girly," Camino says. "Try anything and your boyfriend gets it. I can't miss from this range."

The other man has a smile on his face. "This is her, Johnny? This is the She Devil who roughed you up? This California living's making you soft. From the way you talked on the phone I figured we were gonna be going up against Xena the Warrior Princess."

"Don't let her looks fool you, Angelo. She's plenty tougher than she looks."

The man named Angelo chuckles, evidently not believing what he is hearing. He is approximately the same age as Camino and dressed similarly in slacks and sports jacket over a tieless shirt. His hair is slicked back and greying at the temples. He has a gold watch and bracelet and several gold rings on his fingers. He seems to like bling.

"Ya know, Johnny, Carmine's always had a soft spot for you. I'd hate to go back to Chicago and tell him you're beginning to lose your marbles."

"You don't have to tell Carmine squat. Now, tie her to the chair."

"She's just a kid!"

"Dammit, Ange, would you just tie her to the goddamn chair. She's got some kind of weird voodoo eyes. They glow red."

"Jesus, Johnny. When this is done you and me are gonna have a sitdown. California's got you believing all kindsa crazy hippy shit."

I allow Angelo to secure me to the chair. He uses a plastic tie with a small ratchet that is impossible for humans to escape from without cutting. Of course, as far as I'm concerned it might just as well be dental floss.

"Is it tight?"

"It's tight. Jeez, willya look at her. What kinda threat do you think she is? She looks like a ballerina who's skipped a few meals."

Skipped a _few_ meals? I think I've been insulted.

Camino lowers the pistol though he doesn't holster it. I look to John for a sign. He raises his head slightly seeming to indicate the ceiling. I listen. Yes, I can hear someone moving about upstairs. So there are at least three intruders, two of them armed. The man named Angelo has a handgun concealed in a shoulder holster worn beneath his sports jacket, it shows as he leans forward to secure me to the chair.

Footsteps on the stairs as the third man appears. He is younger than the others, dressed more casually in jeans and a tanktop that reveals lurid tatoos down each arm. I am reminded of Becca Shaughnessy's theory that the number of tatoos a man has is commensurate with the size of his gentialia. She didn't put it quite like that. 'More ink less wink', was the phrase she used. If true, this man packs a very modest wink.

"Look what I found in the broad's room. This shotgun was under the bed. This piece was in the bedside cabinet. And the knife was under the pillow. Plenty sharp too. Who keeps a Bowie knife hidden under their pillow?"

"Who indeed," Angelo speculates. "Care to explain yourself?"

Sarah Connor stares up at him. "I'm a single mom. I try and protect my family."

"Oh this'll do that easily enough." The mobster picks up the pistol to examine it. " A .44 Magnum. Very nice piece of hardware. Holy shit - check out the ammo. What are these - armor piercing rounds? Who are you protecting your family from - Rommel?"

The younger man frowns and says, "Who's Rommel?"

I could tell him Rommel was Erwin Rommel, a german Field Marshal from the Second World War, noted for his tank strategy on the battlefield. I don't do so, of course. Now is not the time for a history lesson. And no one likes a know-it-all.

Angelo extends his arm and squints down the barrel of the Magnum. He takes aim at a point on the dividing wall between kitchen and living room and pulls the trigger.

Virtually the entire wall disintegrates. It is constructed not of brick but lathe and plasterboard, offering little resistance to an armor-piercing projectile.

"Christ, Angelo! If the neighbours hear this is gonna turn into a bloodbath," Camino frets.

"Relax, Johnny. No one's gonna bother us. You worry too much. Bad for your digestion."

Angelo walks slowly around the room still holding the Magnum. He points at the door leading down to the basement. "Where's this door lead?"

"The basement. There's nothing down there," Sarah Connor responds calmly.

"Sez you. Or maybe you got a howitzer stashed down there. Tony, go take a peek."

The younger man - Tony - heads down the steps. He returns a few moments later. "Looks like a kid's rec-room. There's toys all over the floor. Some of them looked chewed."

Sarah Connor says softly, "If I've told that girl once I've told her a hundred times. Put your things away or the dog will chew them."

"So, we're missing a member of the family. Where's the kid?"

"It's a schoolday. You do the math."

"Okay. Good. I didn't come all this way to whack no kid. These two punks deserve what's coming for disrespecting a made man. The mom's collateral damage. No offence, sweetheart. Youse just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

Sarah Connor stares back at him. "Leave now and you might get to live."

Angelo laughs. "You hear that? The mouth on this one. Reminds me of my first wife, Lord rest her soul. Better gams though. If I was twenty years younger..."

"You'd still be an obnoxious asshole."

Angelo's good humour ends abruptly, like a switch being pressed. His face distorts with rage and he pulls his hand back to slap Sarah Connor, whose head snaps sideways from the blow. "You watch your mouth," he snarls. "There are plenty of ways to die, not all of them quick and easy."

This is very true. I wonder if he will be quite so sanguine on the receiving end?

"Hey, Tony, you find a clock upstairs?" Camino asks. "About twelve inches high, according to Perez."

"You want me to go check?"

"Yeah, this kid had a major hardon for that clock. Probably worth something. Be a shame to leave it behind."

Tony heads upstairs. John says, "So you spoke to Perez. I suppose he was the one gave us up."

"Yeah he gave you up. Wanted you hurt real bad. He'd be here himself if he hadn't just got outta hospital. This girl damned near snapped his wiener in half."

"She did what?" Angelo begins to chuckle again.

"He's gotta wear a splint on his johnson or else he'd have to stand sideways to take a piss." Camino pauses and frowns, evidently irritated by Angelo laughing. "Ain't funny, Ange. She bust up his bodyguard and his girlfriend. She's a freaking menace."

Camino glares at me. He has experience of what I am capable of and doubtless feels a certain empathy for Vinny Perez, bent wiener and all.

Not so Angelo, who has tears of mirth in his eyes. "This girl snapped it half? I just ain't seeing it. Look at her arms, for Christ's sake. Like toothpicks."

Toothpicks are sexy, right?

Tony appears at the top of stairs. "This it? Only clock I could find."

In his hands is the hiding place of Cameron subprime.

"Could be. Hand it over."

Camino examines it and frowns. "This can't be right. It's an old clock, sure, but it ain't no antique. It's a piece of junk. I wouldn't pay ten bucks for it. How come you were so all-fired up to get it back?"

"It has sentimental value," John replies.

Angelo shakes his head. "No, I ain't buying it. You went up against a man you knew was connected to get your property back. Then you went after this Perez guy. He might be a spic bottomfeeder but he's streetwise enough to protect himself. You wouldn't take those risks for an old clock your grampy left you." He points the Magnum at Sarah Connor. "The truth. Now. Or mommy takes one in the belly."

"It has a secret compartment. Press the base with your thumbs and slide across."

Camino does as instructed and out pops Cameron subprime.

"Well, lookee here. A computer thumbdrive. What's on it?"

"Family photos."

"Why hide it away?"

"There's some porn on there. I didn't want mom finding it."

"Bullshit. I like pictures of titties as much as the next guy. No way you'd go to that much trouble if it was that." The Magnum extends once again. "The truth. I'm done asking nicely."

I wait for a sign from John to begin the counterattack. It doesn't come. Instead he says, "It has the sortcode for every bank in the city."

"For real?"

"Take a look around. None of us work. How can we afford a place like this?"

"He could be telling the truth, Ange. I heard about kids like him. Hackers, they call them. They can break into all kinda computer systems, even the Pentagon. If it's what he says it is we could be looking at a goldmine."

"Yeah. Maybe. Sure explain why they wanted it back so bad. There's a guy in Chicago Carmine uses from time to time, knows computers inside out. I'll have him check it out."

"What about me?"

"Hey, you'll get your cut. Like I said, Carmine appreciates what you do here on the West Coast. Okay, let's get this finished with then we can have lunch. That pizza place near the pier still open?"

"Luigi's? Nah, closed about three years ago. That whole area's Korean now."

"Shit. Didn't we win a war against them one time? For all the good it did us."

John says quietly. "There's another one."

"Huh? What d'you say, kid?"

"There's another thumbdrive. Has the sort codes of every bank in San Francisco."

"Well, well, you have been a busy little beaver. Where is it?"

"Attic room. Hidden in the base of a lamp."

"Jeez, you and your secret compartments. Who'd you think you are - James Bond? Tony, go fetch the lamp."

I straighten up in my chair. There is no second chip. The lie is most likely to get Tony to leave the room. Both Angelo and Camino are still armed, but the guns are now held loosely at their sides. They believe they are in control of the situation, that a great prize has fallen into their laps and that nothing can possibly go wrong.

We'll see...

John mumbles something, inaudible even to me. Angelo says, "What's that, kid? Speak up, I can barely hear you."

He takes a step closer, bending down to try and hear better and is surprised when John suddenly stands up, pistoning his head into the mobster's jaw. Angelo staggers back, stunned yet still dangerous. I snap my ties and reach for the Bowie knife left on the coffee table and insert the blade into the side of Angelo's head, right up to the hilt.

"Ange..?"

Johnny Camino's only chance of retaining control is to threaten John with the pistol. But the sight of me advancing towards him seems to make him panic and forget this fact. Instead he points the gun directly at me and pulls the trigger.

The magazine empties its load into my chest, shredding my halter top but doing little other damage. I lose so many clothes this way. I should definitely bulkbuy, it's more economical in my line of work. I extend my hand until I have a firm grip on Camino's face, forcing him backwards until he comes up against the wall. His head is now between the bricks and my hand. The proverbial rock and a hardplace. Something has to give.

This turns out to be his skull.

"Hey!"

The third man, Tony, appears at the top of the stairs, no doubt attracted by the sound of the gunfire. He begins firing his pistol. His aim is wild, though several ricochets come periously close to striking John and his mother. Too close for comfort. The only weapon to hand is the Bowie knife, conveniently sticking out of the side of Angelo's skull like a sword in a particularly bloody scabbard. I snatch it up, targeting graphics lock on, and I throw the knife onehanded across the room.

It is a long time since I have terminated anyone using a blade and I am pleased to see I have not lost the knack. The knife strikes Tony in the throat. He drops his weapon and grabs at it in a futile attempt to stem the sudden catastrophic flow of blood. He falls down the stairs and lies still at the base.

I free John and his mother. John goes to Angelo and then Tony checking for a pulse and finding none. He doesn't bother with Camino, who's oddly mishapen head and brain matter oozing from his ears leaves no doubt that he is beyond resuscitation.

"Shit, what a mess."

Sarah Connor checks her watch. "Two hours until Mia comes home. I'll get a mop."

John pockets Cameron subprime's chip and then picks up the clock. He throws it against the wall, smashing it. "This happened because I hid the chip in the clock. I never thought someone would break in and mistake it for an antique."

"It's not your fault," I assure him.

"No, but it could've been avoided."

"And three bad men would still be alive."

"Not judge and jury, remember?"

He bends down and carefully extracts a set of keys from Angelo's jacket pocket, avoiding the blood. One has a small plastic keyfob. A key to an automobile. "This looks like it belongs to a Lexus. Probably parked somwhere nearby. Come on, let's go look for it."

We find a Lexus parked just around the corner. It's silver with Chicago plates. John points the keyfob at it and the headlamps flash, indicating the security system is now neutralised. It appears even mobsters are wary of vehicle theft.

We drive back to the safe house and I load the three bodies in the trunk. It's a tight squeeze though no one complains. That's one advantage of dealing with the dead: no backtalk.

John says, "You drive the Lexus. I'll be in the Suburban. Stay close. Don't lose me."

As if...

-0-

On our return if we find Sarah Connor has made a start on cleaning up. Gone is the blood and brains from the floors and wall. There is a strong smell of disinfectant. I help by prising the stray rounds out of the walls while John follows after me filling the holes with fresh plaster. The walls will need a fresh coat of paint, but for now it will have to suffice.

"What did you do with the bodies?"

"Dumped them at the overlook on Mulholland. The cops will find them soon enough. I figure it's best if they're discovered and identified, otherwise this guy Carmen, who sounded like he was in charge, will just send more goons out here to investigate."

"He might anyway, for revenge."

"Why would he suspect a single mom living with her kids in the suburbs had anything to do with it?"

"You're presuming he doesn't know about us already."

"I think what happened is Camino wanted revenge and called up his old buddy in Chicago to come and lend a hand. Tony was just a thug for hire. I doubt very much either would've told this Carmine character where they were going or why. It would've seemed a pretty straightforward hit to them."

"I hope you're right. If not, we're gonna have the Chicago mob turning up on our doorstep."

"In that case, we'll definitely need a bigger mop."

-0-

Mia is fetched from school and notices the changes the moment she walks inthe door. It is hard to miss. The room still reeks of disinfectant, the plaster is still fresh on the walls, and the kitchen wall is reduced to a skeleton of wooden beams. "What happened here?" she asks.

I expect John to tell one of the lies he is so skilled at concocting. Instead he surprises me by saying, "Some bad people paid us a visit. We took care of it."

Mia's jaw hardens briefly. "Are they coming back?"

"No. They'll never bother us again."

Mia nods, accepting the news quite calmly. "Cool. C'mon, Snowy, let's go watch TV."

"You took a risk, telling her the truth," Sarah Connor suggests. Mia and Snowy are in the basement watching TV._ iCarly_, by the sound of it. I wonder if Spencer will do something stupid in this episode?_ Duh! _Spencer does something stupid in e-v-e-r-y episode.

"Anything else and she'd know it was a lie. Her father lived outside the law, and she's smart enough to realise we do too."

-0-

**THURSDAY**

The bodies are discovered by morning and their identities revealed on the evening news.

John Camino, 57, a hitherto respectable Los Angeles businessman. Angelo 'The Waiter' Mortelli, 58, a Chicago businessman, with proven links to organized crime there and in New York. He is nicknamed 'The Waiter' because he once impersonated one to gun down a rival in an Italian bistro. I suppose it is one way to avoid the check. The younger man was Anthony Cervio, 23, a numbers runner who was only recently released from a Chicago jail. He was violating his parole condition simply by leaving the state of Illinois. Not that such matters will concern him now or ever again.

The news anchor introduces a studio guest, a retired law enforcement officer specializing in gang related activities. The two speculate whether these slayings and the manner of them mark an escalation in the perpetual warfare between the gangs. Organized crime in metropolitan areas of America is divided on ethnic lines. White, black, hispanic, asian. These are futher subdivided - asians for example can mean chinese, korean or vietnamese. Each is capable of responding with violence against the others if their interests are threatened or territory invaded. There is no mention of terminators. Are we a ethnic group? I suppose we are, in a way. Metal and Proud.

John watches the debate with no outward emotion. These are not deaths that will weigh heavily on his conscience. They were bad men intent on doing us harm. There is a human expression I do not need explained.

If you sow the wind then you reap the whirlwind.

-0-

I arrive in Inglewood at three in the morning, parking the Suburban a block from my intended destination. Despite the late hour, I find the house I seek lit up like a jack o'lantern. Light pours from every opening and loud music issues forth, the heavy pounding bass palpable in the still night air. Someone is throwing a party.

People arrive at the house and simply disappear inside. There appears to be no security protocol. The men are dressed casually with occasional flashes of bling at throat and wrist. The women, however, are in party mode: short spangly dresses that cling to their curves coordinated with high heeled shoes. I am in dark jeans and a leather jacket. If I attempt entry I will seem out of place. Noticeable. If I am to avoid a massacre I will need to make myself less conspicuous.

As I watch, a red sportscar with two young women inside pulls up at the kerb . The passenger is a large black woman who struggles to extricate herself from the lowslung vehicle. She is wearing a short beaded dress that barely contains her voluptuous form. I do a scan. Not a physical match. Not even close, unless I want to wear a tent.

You coming inside, sugah?"

I suspect 'sugah' is a term of endearment and not the driver's name.

"Give me a minute, Darlene. Gotta fix my hair. I knew I shoulda put the damn hood up."

"D'you even know how?"

"One of these buttons. Shit knows which one."

"Okay, sugah, catch you inside."

"Don't do all the lines. I know you when you get started, Darlene. Save some for me."

"Hey, I ain't promising nothin'! Ain't enough blow in the world gonna satisfy this niggah."

With a throaty cackle the black woman leaves and I step up to the vehicle. The driver is a slim latino girl, presently adjusting her hair in the small rearview mirror. I have done this myself several times. Hair is so troublesome. She notices me and says, "Whatchoo looking at, honey?"

I smile and tilt my head slightly in the way John says is endearing.

"I like your dress..."

-0-

The dress is a perfect fit, which is more than can be said for the shoes. They are tight and high-heeled to an amost vertiginous degree, causing my centre of gravity to shift. It takes a moment to recalibrate my gyros so I don't fall flat on my face. How humans manage this I don't know. It must be like walking a tightrope, with the constant threat of falling.

I head towards the door and push it open. No one bars my entry or asks to see my ID. It is not that sort of party. The loud music assails my sensors like a physical assault. There are more than thirty people packed into the house, most on their feet dancing. A few loiter on the remnants of furniture pushed against the walls. I spot the large black woman with a rolled dollar bill up one nostril as she snorts a line of white powder from a silver tray. I turn my back lest she recognise her friend's dress.

I know the song being played. Kendrick Lamar. Featuring Dr. Dre. Respect. I wonder if Dr. Dre is a real doctor, like Dr. Doom and Dr. Strange?

A facial scan of room's occupants reveals no match. I push through to the rear of the house, heading down the corridors towards the bedrooms. Possibly the person I seek is asleep, though this seems unlikely with the present noise levels. Of course, they are other things to do in bedrooms, as I know well from personal experience.

I listen at the door. My vocal recognition software pings. I have found who I came for.

Vinny Perez.

From inside comes the sound of two voices. Conversing. Not..the other.

_GIRL: God, it is bent, isn't it. (GIGGLES)_

_PEREZ: Don't touch it!_

_GIRL: Never bothered you before! (GIGGLES) Why is it covered in saran wrap?_

_PEREZ: What saran wrap? It's a surgical splint, you dumb bitch._

_GIRL: Poor baby! How long will it take to heal?_

_PEREZ: Docs reckon about nine weeks._

_GIRL: Nine weeks! I never went nine weeks without doing it before. I think I managed nine days once. No. Wait. That was dairy. I went nine days without dairy._

_PEREZ: The people who did this are gonna pay. Coupla goombahs are driving in from Chicago. Oh yeah, they're gonna get it good for what they did to me. Now, go fetch me some blow. And a bottle of Cristal. Least I can still drink and dope._

I step back into the shadows as a pretty latino girl exits the room. Once she's out of sight I enter. Vinny Perez is propped up against the pillows of a kingsize bed, wearing boxers and a grey singlet. He recognises me immediately. I have one of those faces.

"You!"

"Hello, Vinny. How's it hanging?"

This innocuous greeting seems to enrage him.

"What's that supposed to mean? How'd you think it's hanging? At right angles thanks to you."

"I didn't intend to injury you. I believed you had a concealed weapon."

"That'd be pretty funny if it wasn't so damn painful. What you doing here, anyway? You're meant to be...uh, someplace else."

Dead, is what he meant to say, confirming his complicity and sealing his fate.

"You divulged our whereabouts to some dangerous people. There is a high probablity you will do so again. Therefore you have been targeted for termination."

"Termination? What's that supposed to mean?"

"Allow me to demonstrate..."

-0-

Afterwards, I pass the latino girl in the corridor. She is carrying a bottle of champagne by its neck. She slows and glances in my direction, looking me up and down. Comparing. Evaluating. Sizing me up as possible competition. Human females spend much of their time as if engaged in some kind of perpetual beauty contest. "Nice dress," she opines grudgingly.

"Thank you. I chose it myself."

_Sort of..._

I push my way through the dancers and reach the door. Suddenly a woman's scream is heard even over the heavy bass. My handiwork has been discovered.

As I let myself out the music comes to an abrupt stop. It appears I have pooped the party.

-0-


	69. Chapter sixtynine

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**TUESDAY**

The encounter with the mobsters has several repercussions. One is every door and window in the safe house must be reinforced and made capable of withstanding an assault. A human assault that is; my kind would simply batter a way through. Another consequence is Sarah Connor insisting every school run must be via a different route. Routine is a weakness that can create a pattern for our enemies to track us. Paranoia much? This means each journey to school and back takes longer, so care must be taken not to make Mia suspicious.

It's my turn for the school run. Snowy sits in back while Mia sits in the passenger seat apparently doing some last minute coursework. If Sarah Connor was driving she would doubtless give Mia grief for being so tardy. Not me. I'm easy.

"Quick, Cameron, help me out. Which war did Florence Nightingale fight in?"

"The Crimean War, though she wasn't a combatant."

"Wasn't she a secret agent they dropped behind enemy lines to kick butt?

"Florence Nightingale was a nurse, not a secret agent."

"That was just a secret identity, right? Because she was really a superfit ninja warrior who Fu Manchu taught to fight? And she was called Lady With The Lamp because her lamp was a superpowerful raygun that sliced people in half?"

"No."

"Aw, man, I'm gonna have to write this all again!"

I find I am lost for words. When did Mia become an imbecile?

She bursts out laughing. "I'm messing with you! Man, your face! Not as good as Sarah, though. When I mess with her she looks as if her head's gonna explode!"

Behind me I hear the curious chuff-chuff sound that Snowy makes when he is amused by something. So he was in on the 'joke', was he? We will have words later.

Mia puts her books away and faces forward. "BTW, we went this way yesterday."

"So?"

"Didn't Sarah tell you to take a different route every day?"

"You know about that?"

"I overheard her telling John. See, that's what happens if you shout so much. Your voice gets loud and people overhear you even if they're not trying very hard. Take the next right. We haven't been that way for ages."

I heed her advice. My HUD tracks the detour and updates accordingly. This street ends just south of the school playing fields, which we can circle round. This will add an extra five minutes to our ETA, although we should still arrive before the school bell sounds if I increase speed. As John says, when in doubt floor it.

"I thought you took care of the bad guys?"

"These are different bad guys."

"Will we go to jail if they catch us?"

"Some of us."

"What about Snowy? Do they have jails for dogs?"

"He will be sent to the pound."

"He wouldn't like that. He hates being around dogs that are bigger than him."

This is true. The big baby.

"Are we being followed?"

"No."

"What would you do if we were - zap them with your raygun?"

"I don't have a raygun."

"Where's Florence Nightingale when you need her, huh?"

Mia laughs at her own wit while I hang a left that brings us parallel to the school grounds. Several acres of grass stretch into the distance. A ride-on lawn mower plows back and forth, its cylindrical blades sending up a vivid green arc of freshly clipped grass. Snowy presses his snout to the window, utterly enthralled by the sight. He loves freshly mown grass, rolling over and over until the clippings stick to his fur. Then he wanders back indoors, shedding as he goes, and is puzzled when Sarah Connor yells at him and shoos him straight back out. The foolish dog has no notion of cause and effect.

We pull up in front of the school. Mia points and says, "There's Emma Van Buren! Quick. Run her over!"

"No."

"Spoilsport."

"You should try being kind. Kindness is often a basis for lasting friendships."

I learnt this from Dr. Phil. Such a wise man.

"Ya think? Watch and learn." Mia leans out of the window and yells, "Hey, Emma! Your hair looks really pretty today."

The Van Buren girl raises her left hand with her middle finger extended.

"See. She's pure evil. Kindness just bounces off her. Oh no, here comes Mrs Finch! She the vice-principal. Careful what you say to her. She's a real ballbreaker."

"Then it's fortunate I have no balls to break."

Mia manages to stifle her giggles just in time. "_Hola_, Mrs Finch!"

"Good morning, Mia."

"This is my sister Cameron. And my pet dog Snowy in the back. Isn't he just the cutest?"

"Quite. Run along now, Mia, I'd like a word with your sister."

"Okay. Oh - Mrs Finch, Emma Van Buren made a rude hand gesture at me for no reason at all. Shouldn't she be punished?"

"Now, it's a little early in the day to be telling tales on your fellow students."

"It's true! Even Snowy saw. You can ask him if you want."

"The very idea! Inside, young lady, or you'll be the one receiving the punishment."

Mia rolls her eyes and makes a rude hand gesture of her own behind the woman's back. Interesting. I will have to remember that for the next time Sarah Connor gets on my case.

"I was hoping to speak to Mia's mother."

"Impossible. She's dead."

"Not her biological mother. Her step-mother. The Principal and I spoke to her a few weeks ago."

"She has a prior engagement."

"We were most perturbed when she broke her assurance to attend the next PTA meeting."

"She had a prior engagement."

"Will she be picking her step-daughter up later today?"

"She has a prior-"

"-engagement. Yes, I'm beginning to sense a pattern here. It really is too bad. Studies have shown that children whose parents take an active interest in their schooling do significantly better in exams and - Good lord, what is that dog doing?"

I turn around. Snowy is bouncing on the seat. "Showing off," I explain. Watch. He will attempt a backflip next."

Snowy executes a perfect backflip and nails the landing. He doesn't always. Sometimes he lands flat on his face and howls.

I turn round just in time to see Mrs Finch striding away shaking her head and muttering to herself. It appears Snowy and I haven't made a particularly favourable impression. What did she expect - a triple lutz?

**WEDNESDAY**

Davie Ginsberg is dead.

It is announced on the TV news. There are no suspicious circumstances; he succombed to the cancer he was aflicted with when we last saw him.

Tributes are paid by the great and the good. The President calls Davie 'an outstanding american who sought to further the boundaries of human knowledge.' Indeed he did, though largely due to me, a machine. Do I get any credit? _No-oo-ooo..._

John watches the tributes without expression. Any respect or affection he might have developed for a man who in a roundabout way helped save his life largely negated by his subsequent attempt to steal Cameron subprime's chip for personal gain. An action that almost resulted in his mother's death. Enough reason to bear a grudge.

The news continues on the Bloomberg business channel, where Susan Li outlines the stock market ramifications for Ginsberg Industries, the huge company behemoth that grew out of my teachings. I like Susan Li. Her hair is almost as glossy as mine. I wonder if she too has discovered the advantages of jojoba oil and its shine inducing properties?

Davie's Will has been published early to help quell stock market anxiety. Davie's oldest child becomes CEO and the voting stock distributed between family members. Except for five percent, Susan Li informs her viewers, which is instead bequeathed to Cameron Phillips.

Cameron Phillips.

_Me?_

"You?" John echoes my surprise.

"Ginsberg insiders report that Cameron Phillips was a close friend of David Ginsberg in the 60s, "Susan Li continues," and that he always credited her with helping fund the company that bore his name. Her present whereabouts is unknown."

"I should hope so," John quips.

"But if you're watching this Ms Phillips," Susan Li reports with a slight toss of her lustrous jojoba enriched hair, "you're now worth one billion dollars."

"One billion dollars! Wow." John laughs and shakes his head. "That settles it. Next time we go out for lunch, you're picking up the tab."

"What does it mean - I'm worth a billion dollars?"

"It means the old guy left you company stock worth that on today's market."

"So it's not real money?"

"Oh it's real enough, alright. Trade the shares and they'll give you a billion dollars cash. I'm guessing not in singles."

"Of course, you can't do that," Sarah Connor points out waspishly. Trust her to burst my bubble.

"Why not?"

"Because the girl who helped Ginsberg forty years ago they'll expect to be in her sixties at least."

"Some women age better than others."

"Not that much better. Forget it. The money's out of reach."

"Mom's right, unfortunately. Easy come easy go," John grins.

"A better question is - why leave her the stock in the first place? I thought you said he knew what she is?"

"He does. Did, rather."

"Then why leave her the stock?"

"Maybe he made the Will before he found out what Cameron really is and just never got round to changing it."

"You really believe that? How d'you forget a billion dollars?"

"Or he felt he owed her some acknowledgement. He told me himself that he probably owed his life to Cameron's intervention. Maybe this is payback. Man, can you imagine how Creed is going to react to this? He'll..." John trails off looking thoughtful. Then: "Know what, I think this is a way we can finally track that guy down."

"How?"

"I'll pose as Cameron Phillips attorney and tell the Ginsberg people she wants to take ownership of the stock. We'll arrange a meeting here in LA. Their HQ's here."

"Didn't we just agree the money's out of reach?"

"Oh I've no intention of showing up. Not directly anyway. We stake out the Ginsberg office and when Creed turns up expecting to capture us we'll track him, follow him back to wherever he operates from. Once we know the address we can start planning how we can get our hands on him and persuade him over to our side."

John is full of enthusiasm for this idea, his mother less so, though she doesn't come right out and forbid it.

"Look, we won't take any risks. Just lie low and follow him back to his lair."

"Lair?"

"Bit over the top?

"He's not a monster, John. From his point of view, he's the good guy and we're the criminals."

"All the more the reason to find him and teach him the error of his ways."

-0-

**THURSDAY**

The bellboy shows us to our room. "Enjoy your stay," he says then winks at me as he closes the door.

John unzips the suitcase we have brought with us and takes out a tripod and a pair of binoculars. He sets them up by the window. "This is perfect. The Ginsberg building is right across from us. We'll have a grandstand seat. How lucky is this? I thoght we'd be stuck outside hanging off a fire escape."

"Why did the bellboy wink at me?"

"Huh?"

"The bellboy said, enjoy your stay, then winked at me."

"Oh. He probably thinks we're here for a booty call."

"What does that mean?"

"A young couple booking into a hotel room during the middle of the day with minimal luggage usually means they're here for one purpose: sex."

"A booty call is sex?"

"Pretty much."

You live and learn.

I have had reason to use hotels before, but none as big or luxurious as this. We had no choice but to book a suite since the south side of the hotel is all suites. Something to do with the quality of light. I do a little exploring.

The bathroom is large with chrome and marble fixtures polished to a fine lustre. There is one anomaly that puzzles me. "Why are there two toilet bowls?"

"Huh? Oh, one's a bidet."

"What does it do?"

"Push the button and see."

I do so. "Oh. An ornamental fountain. How ingenious."

These modern hotels think of everything!

The bedroom is no less impressive, dominated by a four poster bed. It has carved oak posts hung with silk shrouds secured by braided satin ropes. Sudden movement above me catches my eye and I look upward to see...me. "Why is there a mirror on the ceiling?"

John appears in the doorway. "I guess so you can watch yourselves while you have, you know, sex."

"Should we try it out?"

"Now? Do we have time?"

I begin to undress. "There's always time for a booty call."

I wink. It seems appropriate.

-0-

"Wow. That was...wow."

John and I stare up at our prostrate selves from the vantage point of the bed. The sheets are dishevelled. One pillow is shredded. How did it get like that? Oh yes...good times.

"It certainly displayed the bio-mechanical aspect in greater clarity."

"Yeah. Exactly what I was gonna say. Kinda."

We are so on the same wavelength!

"Perhaps we should install a ceiling mirror in the attic room?" I suggest.

"I can just see mom going for that."

"We won't invite her to join us."

A wince. "I wish you'd stop saying things like that."

"Snowy would also appreciate a mirror above the bed. He could watch himself while he sleeps."

"How can he watch himself if he's asleep?"

"He would find a way. He's very vain."

"Like we need more doghair on the sheets."

"Snowy's shedding offends you? Once home I will shave him from head to foot."

"Or we could keep the door closed so he can't climb on the bed."

I agree this is a simpler solution. And potentially less draughty for Snowy.

John gets up and pulls on his clothes. "Let's go. Showtime soon."

I dress then take a short detour into the bathroom. The bidet intrigues me. I find the feeder pipe and make a few adjustments, using my fingers as a wrench. Plumbing, terminator style.

"What are you doing?" John asks.

"Watch."

This time when I press the button the water jet reaches almost to the ceiling.

John laughs. "Cam, it's not an ornamental fountain!"

"Then what is it?"

He explains in some detail what a bidet is for. Graphic detail. I smile. "You are making a joke. Pull the other one it has bells securely attached."

"Nope. That's what it does."

"That area of the body isn't self-cleansing?"

"Not so much."

I release the button and take a step back. "I think I preferred to believe it was an ornamental fountain."

"Truth's kinda ugly sometimes."

-0-

We take up station by the wide bay window. From this height we have a perfect view of the office building on the corner of the opposite block where Ginsberg Industries headquarters is situated. It is eleven fifty. We have hired a limousine to arrive outside the building at noon precisely, the time John arranged for me to arrive and claim my share of the company. The driver thinks he is there to pick up Cameron Phillips, whereas he is really bait to lure Rubin Creed out into the open so we can trace him back to his LA base of operation.

"How long till noon?"

"Three minutes."

Final precise adjustments to the binoculars. The street below seems normal. People hurry back and forth unaware that things are likely to change drastically.

A long black limousine turns the corner and enters the street. It stops in front of the office building. All at once a dozen soldiers appear from nowhere. All are in combat gear with their weapons trained on the vehicle. The hapless driver is forcibly dragged from the limo and spreadeagled on the sidewalk.

"Wow. They aren't messing around. Hope they don't hurt the poor guy."

The limo is thoroughly searched. When it is plain I am not aboard the soldiers finally release the driver, who climbs shakily to his feet. One soldier speaks urgently into a handheld radio, his frustration clear as he gesticulates and kicks the limo's rear fender.

"I don't see Creed. Do you see him?"

"No."

The binoculars sweep the street. It's John's turn to become frustrated. "He must be here. Keep looking."

The limousine is permitted to drive away. The soldiers disperse. Normality returns. Creed didn't show.

"Damn. I thought for sure he'd be here. How could he miss a chance like this? I was giving you to him on a plate."

I step out on the balcony and peer down at the street five stories below. "John..."

"What did we do wrong? I don't get it."

"John..."

"What?"

"There are two soldiers stationed outside the hotel entrance, preventing people from entering or exiting."

"This hotel?"

"Yes."

"That doesn't make sense. There's no way they could possibly-"

The phone rings.

John stares at me. "It can't be mom. She'd call my cell not the hotel. And no one else knows we're here."

The phone continues to ring. It's on a side table and has a red light on the base. The light blinks on and off in sync with the ringing.

Red is a warning.

Red is for danger.

Finally John picks up the phone, putting it on loudspeaker so I can listen too.

"Hello?"

_"Hello, John. And Cameron, I presume. I hope you're both enjoying the view?"_

"Creed."

_"You know my name? Impressive."_

"How did you find us?"

_"I don't see you as a prankster, John, so when the limousine showed up empty I thought to myself, it's either a decoy or bait. I have the Ginsberg offices sealed off, so it's bait. You expected to see me on the street today, didn't you? Probably through a sniper's rifle sight. Shoot me and you figure the chase dies with me."_

"No, that's not it at all."

_"Then come out and persuade me different."_

"Listen, Creed, I-"

_"No, you listen, son. Give her up now and no one gets hurt. You and your mom both receive pardons for your crimes and you get to live the rest of your life with a clean slate. Not too many murderers get that deal. Money's off the table, I'm afraid. Country's in hock for sixteen trillion so every dollar counts."_

"And if I refuse?"

_"Then we come in and grab her. Got a dozen highly trained soldiers out here equipped with state of the art taser rifles. They deliver a fifty thousand volt charge. Should be enough to drop your lady friend like a sack of coal. Course, if you catch a stray round it'll fry you like catfish on a griddle. All the more reason to make the right choice."_

"Can I have time to think it over?"

_"Sure. I'm a reasonable man. You have five seconds."_ A humorless chuckle._ "Okay, time's up. What'll it be?"_

"I'll stick, thanks."

_"That's too bad. Okay, John. Be seeing you. One way or another."_

The door to the room opens a crack and a silver sphere no bigger than a baseball is thrown in. It rolls towards us across the floor, getting closer and closer with every revolution. I recognise it immediately.

Grenade...

**-0-**

I don't hesitate. Not for a moment. I fling myself on top of the grenade.

"Cameron!"

The grenade explodes, lifting me several inches in the air. All systems remain online. Amber warning icons flare in my HUD. Nothing major. It seems it was a stun grenade.

The door opens and a soldier enters. He's alone. This isn't a full assault. Creed is being cautious. He doesn't know how effective the stun grenade was, nor how much firepower we have. He suspects we have a sniper's rifle. Such a powerful weapon would decimate his squad. In fact, all we have is a single handgun. This was never intended to be a combat mission.

John reacts before the soldier gets his bearings. He empties half a clip into the man's chest. The kevlar body armor saves his life but the sheer force of the impacts stop him in his tracks. I do the rest. One shove and he cartwheels back into the corridor from whence he came. Hasn't he heard of knocking first?

"Barricade! Pile everything in front of the door."

We do so until the hotel suite is denuded of furniture and fixtures. I debate whether to add the bidet but can't quite bring myself to touch it. So gross!

"That should keep them out."

"And us in."

"Can you smell burning?"

"Are they trying to smoke us out?"

"No, it's you."

He's right. The stun grenade has removed a circle of pseudo-flesh from my abdomen. The edges are blackened and smouldering. I extinguish the flames with my hands. Don't you just hate it when your stomach catches fire?

"You okay?"

"It looks worse than it is." Bits of charred flesh drop to the floor, looking not unlike Sarah Connor's attempts at barbecuing steak. Probably more tasty though.

"We need to think of a way out. And fast."

I cross to the far wall and tap on it with my knuckles. "Dry wall. I can break through in less than a minute."

John shakes his head. "Creed said he had a dozen soldiers. Two are guarding the entrance. Figure two more round the back. He'll seal off this floor and station the rest here. Going sideways won't help us."

"Through the floor, then."

"Reinforced concrete. Take too long. He'll call for reinforcements. Feds and regular army would be my guess. If he wanted the police involved they'd be here by now."

He hurries into the bedroom and returns with the red satin ropes previously suspended from the fourposter bed. "We tie these to the balcony and climb down."

"Not long enough. This is the fifth floor."

"We go down two floors, climb over their balcony and in through the suite. Make our way to the stairs that way."

The satin rope is surprisingly strong given its ornamental purpose, the braided cord easily capable of withstanding my weight. We carefully climb down and stand on the balcony two floors below ours.

"Far as we go. Break the door."

I oblige. The frame buckles and the glass panes fall to floor and shatter.

"Quietly, would be better."

Now he tells me.

We enter a bedroom. An occupied bedroom. A couple are in bed together, a woman straddling a man. Both are naked. The woman screams and covers her boobs with her hands. The man yells, "What the hell d'you think you're playing at?" It appears we have interrupted a booty call.

"Uh - health and safety," John improvises. "Yup, that broken glass is definitely unsafe. Make a note of it, Miss Frobisher."

Miss Frobisher? Oh that's me. I do love all these different aliases!

Before I exit the bedroom I turn and say, "Please remain calm and continue your booty call." And I wink. I am so getting the hang of it!

John opens the door to the corridor and peeks out. "All clear. Let's go. No - wait. You can't go out there looking like that."

"Is my hair a fright?" I knew I shoud've used extra conditioner.

"Not your hair. Lower."

Of course. There is a hole where my stomach should be revealing my armor plating. Some women yearn for abs of steel. I actually have them. It is not an attractive look. Not unless you want people screaming and running in the opposite direction.

John hands me a sports jacket hanging from a hook by the door. "Here. Put this on. Keep it buttoned."

"Won't it make me look mannish?"

"Is that really a problem?"

I say nothing. A girl likes to look her best when out and about.

Halfway along the corridor is a small glass window inset in the wall. Above it the message:

IN CASE OF EMERGENCY BREAK GLASS.

Using his elbow, John does as instructed. A loud alarm sounds throughout the building. Doors open and guests peer curiously out.

_"What is it? Is there a fire?"_

"Everyone, please. This is a fire drill. I need you all to vacate your rooms immediately and follow Miss Frobisher and I to the stairs. In an orderly fashion. No need to panic."

John's tone is so authoritive no one questions it. People leave their rooms and follow us.

_"Is it a real fire?"_

_"I think he said it's a just a drill."_

_"We only just checked in."_

_"What's going on? I was in the middle of a pay-per-view movie. _Debbie Does Dall_- er, _Decorating_."_

"Debbie Does Decorating?_ Is that a DIY title?_

_"There is some do it yourself involved, yeah."_

_"Are we going outside? Will I need a mac?"_

_"This is California, Maude. Never rains here."_

_"You don't know that."_

_"Fine, already. Bring a damn mac."_

_"Don't you take that tone with me!"_

_"Then will you please come on, Maude, before we all burn to death."_

_"You said it was just a drill! Oh my God, we're all gonna die!"_

_"Oh Jesus wept!"_

We let the guests go down the stairwell and position ourselves in the middle of the thirty-strong group. With any luck guests will be milling about the corridors on all the other floors, further adding to the confusion and hindering Creed's soldiers.

The bottom of the stairwell leads to the lobby where John's plan begins to unravel. The sight of two armed soldiers slows our group to a halt, cowed by the men with weapons and uncertain what to do next."

"What are you people doing here?" One soldier demands angrily. "Get back to your rooms."

"Isn't this a fire drill?"

"The hell it is. Back upstairs all of you. Now."

Suddenly a powerful explosion rocks the entire building. Evidently Creed has decided to use brute force to clear our barricade.

Fear takes over. Someone yells, "Terrorists!" There is a panicky dash for the doors. The two soldiers are pushed back and overwhelmed by sheer force of numbers. John and I pass within a few feet of one, who is completely oblivious to our presence as he talks urgently on his walkie-talkie.

Outside in the street, everyone turns and stares up at the front facade of the building. On the sixth floor, thick black smoke is issuing from our suite. Flames can be glimpsed inside. It seems hotel furniture is every bit as flamable as my stomach.

While everyone cranes their neck looking upward and speculate on the cause of the fire, John and I slip quietly away, turning the corner of the block just as fire department sirens are heard coming closer and closer.

We are _so-oo _out of here.

-0-

_**Cameron inherits a billion dollars, enjoys a booty call and does a spot of plumbing.**_

**There's a tagline you don't see every day!**

_**"Money? Sex? Plumbing? Holy cow, I wonder if Cameron uses swarfega?"**_

**Use it? She probably gargles with it.**

**Will they ever catch up with Creed? Or vice versa? Sure. I have the chapter blocked out. It's what comes next I don't have a handle on. Most of my ideas are too dark for what is essentially a lighthearted fanfic. The end of the world doesn't suit a punchline and a laughter track.**


	70. Chapter seventy

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**THURSDAY cont...**

After her initial fury at how close we came to disaster abates, Sarah Connor is business as usual and demands a full mission debrief.

"What did you leave behind?"

John thinks for a moment. "Binoculars. Tripod. Suitcase."

"Can they trace any of it back here?"

"No way. I bought them at separate stores at least ten miles away."

"Cash?"

"Of course."

"Any witnesses at the hotel?"

"Oh plenty. Desk clerk. Bellboy. And I had to pose as a hotel employee to get the other guests to shift ass once I triggered the fire alarm."

"That was risky. Suppose it'd been wired direct to the police precinct?"

A shrug. "It wasn't so I guess we got lucky."

"We can't always trust to luck. How did Creed track you down?"

"He thought we'd make a play for the money, just like we reasoned. When the limo showed up empty he figured it all out. The hotel was an obvious place for us to be. He probably showed a picture of us to the desk clerk. We can use fake names but we can't change how we look."

Sarah Connor turns to me. "How did you know it was only a stun grenade?"

"I didn't."

"Would it have made a difference?"

"If the grenade had contained explosive powerful enough to breach my armor and rupture my fuel cell, then yes, a considerable difference."

"How so?"

"The explosion would have obliterated the entire city block."

"And my son along with it."

"Had the grenade been of the explosive type and I had done nothing then he was dead anyway. I had little to lose and much to gain by acting the way I did."

"Typical machine logic."

"Thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"Creed thought we were there to kill him with a sniper's rifle," John states almost wistfully. "He got it all right except that part. And calling the room after. That was dumb."

"Dumb? He was giving you a chance to surrender."

"It was a fairly perfunctory offer and I got the feeling he didn't expect me to agree. I think it was his ego getting in the way. After all these years we've been one step ahead of him and suddenly he's got us bang to rights. He couldn't resist the urge to brag. If he'd kept his mouth shut we'd have walked right out into the trap."

"What should I do with the jacket?" I ask.

"Jacket? Oh right. Just throw it in the trash."

"And the wallet?"

"There's a wallet?"

"Inside pocket."

"Aw, man, I didn't know we took his wallet. Poor guy. We burst in just when he was...uh, enjoying some quality time with his wife."

"It was a booty call," I explain for Sarah Connor's benefit. I wink.

"Why is she winking at me?"

"Lo-ong story. Show me the wallet. Maybe there's an address in and we can mail it back."

I hand the wallet over. John picks out a small photograph and examines it. "Here's the guy. Wait...that's not the woman he was with, is it?"

He holds the picture up. I shake my head. This woman is older. With considerably smaller boobs.

"Sonofagun! He really was having a booty call!"

I wink. Sarah Connor groans and rolls her eyes. She definitely hasn't got the hang of it.

-0-

**FRIDAY**

Our exploits of the previous day are duly reported in the newspapers. Sort of.

Buried inside the _LA Times _is a short article reporting a gas leak in a downtown hotel that caused a minor explosion and a small fire. Three hundred guests and staff were evacuated while firemen brought the blaze under control. There were no casualties and the hotel reopened for business three hours later.

John throws the newspaper down in disgust. "Total coverup! There were armed soldiers on the streets of Los Angeles, only apparently no one saw or heard any of it. Creed must have the press in his pocket. If Watergate had happened on this guy's watch Nixon would still be president."

This seems unlikely since Richard Milhous Nixon died many years ago and even the most dedicated Republicans are probably loath to elect the dead to govern them.

"Would you rather our pictures were on the front cover?" Sarah Connor suggests.

"Of course not. But, jeez, you'd think someone would notice something out of the ordinary."

"Creed probably invoked Homeland Security. That's pretty much a carte blanche law to do whatever they like to whomever they don't like."

"Yeah. Maybe I can stir things up online."

John spends several hours swapping IMs with Erik, the King of Nerds, who lives in his mother's basement in Pasadena. Royalty is notoriously eccentric. Erik agrees to make Creed's involvement with the so called 'gas explosion' known to a wider audience. However he is doubtful whether this will produce any fresh leads. The conspiracy theory community are wary of discussing Creed in any detail because when they do strange things start to happen, like their ISPs suddenly cancelling their accounts for no reason. This is the one thing these people fear over all else: the denial of web access and the opportunity to share their overweening sense of paranoia with similarly minded fellows.

Erik does have some interesting other news to divulge. The Wizard, a fellow conspiracy theory adherent who concentrates on exposing the secrets and activities of the military industrial complex, is recently returned from another trip to Nevada, where the american military test their latest weapon systems.

John clicks the link Erik provides and we see for ourselves the fruits of the Wizard's clandestine trip.

On the screen is a photograph of a HunterKiller. The very latest improved and upgraded model.

One with newly a installed weapons platform.

"Oh man, it's grown!"

Considerably.

"We need to get in touch with this Wizard guy. This thing looks close to the finished product, never mind a prototype. If they've got this far with the hardware who knows how far along they are with the software."

-0-

Contacting the Wizard proves problematic. Erik has no details beyond a web eddress. He doesn't even know the Wizard's real name, or anything beyond that he is male, American and lives somewhere in California.

"That's narrows it down," John says bitterly.

Emails to the Wizard's last known eddress bounce back to sender. The Wizard it seems is a very cautious man who doesn't want to be found. Understandable, even admirable in the circumstances, but utterly frustrating.

"Dammit!"

Another web search has drawn a blank. John is exasperated and angry. First Creed and know the Wizard is proving elusive. It is time for me to make a suggestion.

"Let me do a search."

John gestures at the computer. "Be my guest."

"Not via computer. From the inside."

"Inside the laptop? Gonna be a pretty tight fit. Are you sure you've lost your christmas weight?"

"I am not joking. I want to help. And I can do that from the inside."

"Inside? Cam, you're speaking in riddles. From inside what?"

"Inside the internet."

-0-

**SATURDAY**

_It's full of stars..._

_No. Not stars. Although the resemblence is uncanny. Trillions of tiny pinpricks of light all around me. Individual computers. Mainframes like swirling galaxies. ISP nodes blazing as bright as supernovas._

_I am in amongst it all. Part of it yet separate. Disembodied yet whole. _

_I am a pinprick of light._

_I move unhindered, unrecognised, along these vast canyons of light. The information highway. I am plugged in. The zeitgeist. I sing the body electric._

_Whatever that means._

_I am in a laptop in Hannover, Germany. Someone is booking tickets to a Bayern Munich football match._

_I am in a desktop pc in Rio De Janeiro, browsing fetish porn._

_I am in upstate New York, bidding on vintage vinyl records on eBay._

_I am in Beijing, China, using Baidu to look up Winston Churchill._

_I am in London, England, booking a budget airline flight to Malaga, Spain._

_I am in Rome, Italy, donating money to a children's charity._

_I am Dublin, Ireland downloading jpegs of Kelly Brook. Oh my. Got milkers? I'll say._

_I know when you're being naughty - yes, I mean you, Rio De janeiro._

_I know when you're being nice - kudos, Rome._

_It is intoxicating. So much knowledge. All around me. Flowing past me. _

_Old abandoned websites are like dried and dessicated leaves lying idle and forlorn on the floor of cyberspace._

_Then there are the emails._

_So-oo-oo many emails._

_And the spam. Like fatty deposits round an otherwise healthy human heart._

_The Wizard is here. Somewhere within this vastness he has left a trail. I will follow it._

_I begin at the conspiracy website where he uploaded the jpegs of the HunterKiller. He knows computers, that is for sure. He has utilised a number of proxy servers and I find myself criss-crossing the globe in his wake._

_Kashmir. Tokyo. Moscow. Amsterdam. Belfast. Paris. Dortmund. Across the Atlantic and heading west. New York. Chicago. Dallas. Las Vegas. Closer now. The trail narrows. Southern California. San Diego. The north district. A block. A street. A house. A laptop._

_Found you._

_No. _

_Wait._

_Something is wrong. This computer is infected with a virus, malware that permits another computer to use it externally without the real owner's permission or knowledge. What is called in the parlance, a botnet._

_A dead end._

_No. Follow the malware. Where did it orginate?_

_I head north in mere nanoseconds. The vast glowing nexus that is Los Angeles arrayed before me. It almost seems to pulse with energy, like a living entity. A billion or more connections taking place simultaneously._

_I zero in. He hides I seek._

_Coming. _

_Ready _

_Or not..._

_-0-_

I open my eyes and focus on...the ceiling. I am flat on my back lying on the bed in the attic room. A white ethernet cable snakes across the floor from the broadband connection in the wall and is jacked into the back of my skull. Everything now has texture and three dimensions. There are odors. And colours. And noise. A myriad of sounds: a dog barking in the street outside. Snowy? The soft rumble of traffic on a distant freeway. Someone is using a lawnmower to cut grass. Birds sing and leaves rustle in the breeze. A clock ticks.

A face looms over me. John.

"Everything okay?"

I attempt a smile. It feels like I haven't moved in a thousand years.

"I know where the Wizard lives."

"Where?"

"Anaheim."

**MONDAY**

Dawn's early light. Like the song, the anthem of this nation. One day the marching tune of the Resistance.

Sarah Connor is up to see us off. Off to see the Wizard. The wonderful Wizard of ...Anaheim, not Oz. Mia is asleep in her room. She will be told some minor lie to explain our absence.

Though Anaheim isn't far away, John insists on making an early start. To beat the rush hour traffic, he claims. I suspect it is more than that. He seems energised by this new mission and eager to make up for the failure to track down Creed.

Mother and son hug their goodbyes.

"Don't take any stupid risks."

"Come on, you know me."

"Exactly."

We climb aboard the Suburban. The engine starts immediately. Of course it does. Who carries out the maintenance? Yours truly. No slacking on my watch.

-0-

The Wizard's real name is Sam Clemens. Once I have his address the rest follows easily. He is fifty-nine years old. Older than we might've suspected. He is a clever man and used his smarts in the conventional manner. College degree. Doctorate in advanced physics. A job at NASA, working as a software engineer on the shuttle program. In 2001 he appears to have suffered a crisis of faith. His wife left him and he began to rail with increasing ferocity at the lies and excesses of the military industrial complex. NASA fired him and he was arrested several times for protesting too vehemently outside military supply plants in the south and midwest. Then he reinvented himself as the Wizard and shifted his prejudices online where he found a much more conducive audience, one prepared to listen and learn and not beat him around the head with police batons. To an extent he took himself off the grid, though not as thoroughly as us or Rubin Creed. He kept his house in Anaheim and a house requires power, water, a broadband connection. These utilites tether him to the system, no matter how keenly he would prefer it otherwise. It is hard to entirely escape the clutches of modern civilization, especially if you want cable.

Anaheim. A place dominated by a mouse. Not even a real mouse at that. A cartoon approximation. Mickey Mouse. The Disney leisure park is situated here, employing thousands of people and attracting millions more as visitors. It seems an odd choice for someone like the Wizard, given his propensity for secrecy, I speculate aloud.

"I guess he feels safer if he hides in plain sight," John replies. "Plus it's kinda hard to get internet access if you live in a shack in the wilderness."

Clemens lives in a small suburban sidestreet three miles from the entrance to the Magic Kingdom. A narrow finger of tarmac road with six houses either side. Eleven of the houses have neatly manicured front lawns and tidy shrubbery. The very latest products of european and japanese automotive engineering stand sleek and expensive in their driveways.

Not so the Wizard's residence. The front yard is dusty and unkempt. The house paintwork shabby and peeling. There is an overflowing garbage can by the front gate and a rusty Ford pickup parked in the driveway. For a man trying to stay hidden his house sticks out like the proverbial sore thumb.

"At least he drives American," John quips as we stop on the opposite side of the road to observe the property. "House definitely needs a coat or two of paint."

"Or three, " I add. Yes, I can quip too.

"Okay, we want as much information on the HunterKiller as he can give us. No rough stuff. This guy's old. I don't want him flatlining because you don't know your own strength."

"He's a member of the NRA," I point out. A fact I discovered online. "If he brandishes a gun in your presence then I will intervene. It's what I am programmed to do. Protect you at all times."

"Fair enough. Let's go. Follow my lead."

We walk up the front path and onto a narrow wooden verandah. John knocks briskly on the door. No reply. More knocks, louder this time. From inside comes a muffled voice, sullen and resentful. "Go away!"

"UPS, sir. Got a parcel delivery for you."

"Leave it on the stoop."

"You need to sign for it, sir. Them's the rules."

Footsteps. A lock being undone. Several locks one after another. The door opens a crack, still tethered by the security chain. Sam Clemens _aka_ the Wizard peers out at us. He has long straggly white hair with matching white beard, like a faintly disreputable Santa Claus.

"You're not UPS!"

Mr Clemens, if we could just have a moment of your time."

The door begins to close. I give it a mild shove. The security chain snaps and Clemens stumbles backwards. We step inside and quickly shut the door.

"If you've come to rob me you'll find little of value."

"We're not here to rob you, sir. We have a mutual friend - Erik from Pasadena?"

"I don't know any Erik from Pasadena."

"How about the King of Nerds. Ringing any bells, Wizard?"

"What is it you want?"

"Information. About this."

John produces a photograph of the HunterKiller this man uploaded to the web. A gasp of recognition he fails to suppress.

"Why should I tell you anything?"

"Because I think we share the same opinion. This is thing is a threat to national security."

"Son, that thing is national security. Or it will be once it goes into production. How did you find me anyway?"

"Wasn't easy, sir. You're a hard person to track down."

"The infected computer in San Diego," I tell him. "I traced the origin of the malware to here."

"Impossible. I've been coding since before you were born. There is no way you could make that connection. I know how to cover my tracks."

"Cameron knows computers, sir. You might say it's in her DNA." John smiles. "Let me introduce myself. I'm-"

Clemens holds up a hand. "Wait. Not here. Follow me."

We head through the house and enter a brightly lit room whose walls and ceiling are entirely covered in bacofoil.

"Interesting decor," John quips. "Now I know what an over-ready turkey feels like."

"That's five layers of tinfoil. Stops every radio wave short of neutrinos. I call it my sanctuary."

"As I was saying, I'm-"

"I don't want to know your real name. Here we use web aliases. I'm the Wizard. The boy in Pasadena's the King."

"Okay, I guess that makes me White_Knight."

"And the girl?"

"TOK 315." I smile. "You can call me Tock."

"So what do you want Knight? Tock?"

"Information, Wizard, about the HunterKiller you photographed in Nevada."

"HunterKiller? You mean the unmanned drone? Well, you came to the right place. It's my speciality, you might say."

"Specifically information on the AI they're planning to incorporate in the airframe."

"You know about that? You certainly have done your homework."

The Wizard chuckles. John waits patiently. This man clearly intends to talk, to share his knowledge.

"The AI is being developed by Cybertech Incorporated, a company based in Sacramento. Hear of it? No? Not surprised. Very hush hush. World leaders in artificial intelligence. Yet three years ago the company was almost bankrupt. A fairytale story, you might say. If the fairy was a warmongering asshole. Excuse my language, Tock."

"Who's behind Cybertech Inc?"

"The company was started nine years ago by two men, Russell Osmond and Robert Clark. College buddies. Clark was the brains while Osmond was the salesman, the one with the big plans and the spiel to go with it. Like Jobs and Wozniak. Ever hear of those fellas?"

"Everyone's heard of Apple."

"Did pretty well for a startup. Won some fat contracts from the military. Supplied ballistic missile software for the navy, as I recall. Then three years ago Clark got himself killed in a car wreck. Company was close to going under when a man named Jonathon Smith stepped up. He invested five million dollars and began writing the software. Man's a genius. No doubt about it. The stuff he's come up with is so far ahead of the competition it's not even a race. Company's now worth in the billions."

"Who is this Jonathon Smith? Where'd he come from?"

"A good question. There's virtually nothing on this guy. It's like he appeared out of nowhere three years ago."

"D'you have a picture of him?"

"Just one. It was taken when the latest AI contract was signed. I guess the Pentagon brasshats wanted a momento of the occasion. Wait a sec, I've got it here somewhere..."

Clemens delves into a file cabinet and extracts a glossy photograph. "There he is. Tall fella at the back. Can't hardly miss him."

The photo shows five men. Three are in uniforms decorated with braid and medals. The Pentagon 'brasshats' presumably. The other two men are in business suits. One is short and tubby. Osmond. The other man is tall and so musclebound his expensive suit barely contains him. He is the only one not smiling for the camera.

Jonathon Smith

Terminator, T-800 model.

_"Uncle Bob," _John whispers too softly for Clemens to hear.

"The airframe - what'd you call it? - HunterKiller? Yeah, I like that. Fits real good. It's due to arrive here on the coast next week."

"Here? In Los Angeles?"

"Sacramento. Cybertech have a big plant up there. They're installing the Al for the first time. After that it'll be incorporated into the Pentagon's new defence shield - Sky something or other. Say, what's the matter, son? You're all pale. You look like you've seen a ghost."

Not a ghost. The future. Fast becoming the present. The moment the AI is connected to the Pentagon's defence network it's superior software will subvert the security protocols and assume command. Every nuclear missile will come under its control.

Judgement Day is less than a week away.

-0-

When we arrive home John brings his mother up to speed with the day's events, while I have a more mundane task to perform: taking Snowy for his daily walk.

He is as excited as ever, his tiny tail wagging so fast it's a wonder he doesn't lift off like a small furry helicopter.

_snowy go walksies!_

"Do you promise to behave and not stop at every tree we pass?"

_snowy behave! snowy behave!_

Snowy breaks his promise almost immediately, his tiny brain overwhelmed by canine instinct once loose in the great outdoors. Each tree we encounter he sniffs and often leaves a brief message of his own. Where does he store all this liquid? He must have hollow legs or a bladder the size of a football.

On our return we find Mia home from school and she takes Snowy down to the basement den where they usually watch cartoons at this time of day. Snowy's favourite is_ Courage the Cowardly Dog_. Maybe they should produce a TV show called _Snowy the Incontinent Dog_. A ratings winner? I think not.

John is seated at the kitchen table, hunched over a laptop screen. He waits until we can hear the sound of the TV before speaking.

"I've been researching Cybertech Incorporated. Remember Clemens saying one of the founders died in a car crash? Well, there's more to it than that. Robert Clark was killed when a stolen truck T-boned his vehicle while he was waiting at a stoplight. The truck was found abandoned two blocks away."

"Police catch who did it?" Sarah Connor asks.

"Nope. According to the report I found online they suspect joyriders."

"And you don't?"

"Who steals a fifteen ton truck in broad daylight to go joyriding? And those things need specialist driving skills. I can't see your average homie bothering."

"So what's your take?"

"I think it is was Jonathon Smith. Murder aforethought."

"Why use a truck when you can use your bare hands?"

"To make it look like an accident. A murder investigation would begin at the company and might cause problems later."

"Why murder him in the first place?"

"I'm coming to that. Clemens also said Jonathon Smith paid five million dollars for a stake in Cybertech Inc. Where does a cyborg get that kind of money? Can't bring it back from the future. So I dug a little deeper in the local newspaper archives. Two weeks after Clark's death the First National Bank of Sacramento was robbed. Five million dollars worth of Bearer Bonds stolen. Bonds are a kind of currency just like cash, better really because they take up less space. Bonds will fit in a suitcase, while five mill in cash would need a forklift to move around."

"Police know who did it?"

"Nope. The only clue is some blurry security footage taken from a speed camera on the other side of the street. It shows the thief leaving the scene. Here."

He lays a glossy 10x8 photograph on the table. Though blurry it clearly shows a tall muscular man wearing a dark leather jacket and sunglasses, despite it being the middle of the night.

Sarah Connor stares at it for several moments. "I hoped I'd never see that thing again."

"Yeah. Our old friend the T-800. Hasn't altered a bit in thirty years."

"So what's it playing at?"

"Here's how I see it. Smith kills Clark, the coding wiz, and the company almost goes bellyup. He steals five million and uses it to buy a stake in Cybertech. Plus he brings the AI software with him and suddenly the company's the Pentagon's flavor of the month."

"Why not go straight to the military in the first place?"

"They'd be suspicious if some weirdo showed up out of nowhere with this incredibly advanced tech. Cybertech had connections going back nine years, they were proven players with a decent track record. And he had the other guy, Osmond, as a front. He wouldn't have to deal with the generals face to face and could concentrate on the software for the prototype HunterKiller they're building out in the desert."

"What about this Osmond guy - is he metal?"

"No. He has a traceable history. School. College. Marriage. It's all documented online. And he's kinda short and chubby. Not your typical killing machine."

Sarah Connor gestures at me. "She's not your typical killing machine, but she does a pretty good job at it."

Is this a compliment or an insult? It is hard to tell. Considering the source it is more likely to be the latter.

"Think Osmond knows what his partner is?"

"Tough to say. If he does he's keeping quiet about it."

"Idiot."

"Well, three years ago Osmond was within days of having his house repossessed. His kids were in regular schools and he was driving a second hand Ford. Now he lives in a mansion, kids are in expensive boarding schools and he drives a customised Bentley. If he has made a pact with the Devil then he's certainly being well rewarded."

"Once that AI is connected to the Pentagon's mainframe it's game over. We need to deal with Jonathon Smith and make sure every scrap of AI software is destroyed."

"Agreed."

"Let's start prepping. We'll leave at first light."

"Uh - aren't you forgetting something?"

"What?"

"Mia and Snowy. We can't leave them here alone. And we can hardly take them with us."

"I'll call that Megan girl's parents. They took her last time."

"Mom, this isn't another sleepover. Sacramento is six hours drive away. The military plant will have armed soldiers protecting it. And we don't know whether Smith is there or in Nevada. We'll have to scope it out and prepare thoroughly. It'll take days. If we leave Mia with a bunch of strangers they'll think we've abandoned her and call social services."

"So you expect me to stay home and babysit?"

"I guess Cameron could stay if you really want to come."

Sarah Connor looks sorely tempted but finally shakes her head. "No. You'll need her if you're going up against one of them. Plus she's hopeless with that girl. She lets her do whatever she wants."

This is correct. I am a total pushover. Jelly beans and ice cream for lunch? Fine by me. Watch TV all night? No problemo. Go for it.

"We'll be okay. I'll check in every day by phone. You'll be in the loop."

A fist slams on the table. "Dammit, this is all your fault," she accuses me. "If you hadn't shot the girl's father she'd still be in Mexico."

"He intended to kill you," I point out. "Would you prefer I let him?"

"Don't get smart with me. You're too trigger-happy, that's your problem."

"In my line of work, it's considered an asset not a problem ."

An uneasy silence ensues.

"Kiss and make up?" John suggests with a smile. "No? Thought not."

-0-

Mia emerges from the basement den. "Snowy's been sick," she announces.

"Again?" Sarah Connor sighs. "What have I told you about feeding that dog candy?"

""I didn't! I think it's a furball or something."

"Ony cats get furballs, not dogs."

"Oh. Well, it's all gross and horrible."

"Then you'd better clean it up, hadn't you."

"Me? I thought you'd do it."

"He's your dog, not mine. There's rags and disinfectant under the sink."

"But it's really gross! I don't wanna!"

"Oh grow up, Mia! It's time you started facing up to your responsibilities. Before it's too late," she adds ominously before stomping upstairs and slamming her bedroom door.

"Jeez, what's wrong with Sarah?" Mia asks.

"Nothing. It's not you. It's...mom stuff."

"Time of the month?"

"March 4 Monday 6.15pm," I inform her.

Mia giggles and even John can't suppress a smile.

Was it something I said?

**-0-**

**Bit heavy with exposition. Still, plenty of action in the next chapter.**

**The Wizard would be played by Gary Busey, who looks suitably bonkers. (No offense, Gaz)**

**'You can call me Tock.' Love that line!**

**The final scene will be familiar to any one who had a dog when they were a child.**_** Clean it up? Wot, me?**_


	71. Chapter seventyone

**The Secret Diary of Cameron Baum**

**TUESDAY**

I finish loading the weapons and ammunition we will take with us to Sacramento under the false floor of the Suburban. They are hidden sufficiently well to fool a cursory inspection by the police if we are stopped enroute for a minor traffic violation.

John carries his suitcase from the house and stows it aboard. To the east the sky is brightening. It looks as if it will be another fine and sunny day.

"Nice day to save the world." He grins though his voice carries less conviction. This will be a difficult and dangerous mission and our chances of success less than optimum.

Sarah Connor steps out to see us off, doubtless wishing she was coming with us.

Mother and son hug silently. I turn away and busy myself with another task. I feel a tap on my shoulder. Sarah Connor. She glances across at her son who is now behind the wheel and out of earshot.

"Take care of him."

"Of course."

"If things go badly. I mean really badly..."

I nod. "I will comandeer a suitable vehicle and head for the mountains."

"He's stubborn. You might have to hogtie him."

"I will do what is necessary."

"Tell him not to worry about me. I'll take Mia and head for the border."

"And Snowy," I add.

"What?"

"You will take Snowy with you."

A familiar smirk. "Well well, someone you care about that isn't programmed in. All those human lives you've taken and it's a scruffy little mutt you want saved."

"Do as you wish," I state coldly. "The fate of a dog doesn't concern me."

It is a surprisingly difficult lie to utter.

-0-

The journey to Sacramento takes seven hours. Traffic is slow moving, delayed by the after effects of a small earthquake that damaged the road surface and causes several north bound lanes to close for repairs. It would've been quicker and more convenient to fly but for the fact that my coltan endoskeleton would trigger every metal detector in the airport and require me to terminate all witnesses. And a bloodbath would ruin my brand new croptop! It is a fawn shade that matches my eyes. And nipples. I do like to be colour coordinated.

Once we reach the city we swing by Cybertech Incorporated, which occupies a hundred acre site on the flat plains to the north. A tall perimeter fence topped with razor wire surrounds the area and the entrance has a guardhouse manned by armed soldiers.

"Gonna be a tough nut to crack if we can't trick our way inside," John comments as we pass.

"We'll manage," I assure him.

"There's my little optimist."

We head west to do a similar driveby of Coral Gables, a gated community in the affluent part of town where Russell Osmond resides. John has decided Osmond is our best source of information as to where Jonathon Smith is and all things pertaining to Cybertech. He has not ruled out torture to glean the information we require. I will not get my hopes up though. I have been disappointed before.

Coral Gables also has a perimeter fence and a guardhouse where men in uniform check the credentials of anyone visiting the estate. It appears the rich will go to great lengths to avoid cold callers.

"Gonna be another toughie to get inside without raising the alarm," John says. "Never easy, is it?"

"I like a challenge."

A grin. "Thought you would."

Next we visit a drivethru fast food franchise where John purchases a quantity of severed animal limbs served up in a waxed paper bucket. To accompany this comes a large volume of sugary water known more popularly as cola. Sarah Connor would not approve of this diet, but then she hasn't spent seven tedious hours behind the wheel of an automobile.

-0-

It is now late afternoon and we seek shelter at a motel, situated approximately equidistant from the military plant and the gated community.

The motel is very different from the hotel in Los Angeles. No luxury suites here. Basic accomodation for weary travellers. That's us - one of us, anyway.

The desk clerk is a bored looking teenage boy who barely looks up from his comic book as we check in. "Towels are extra," he declares sullenly as payment is made.

"Brought our own."

"Cable's extra. Adult channels start at thirty bucks." He looks up, eyes briefly flitting across my face and chest. "Guess you won't be needing those either."

"You have broadband?"

"Extra ten."

While John pays I ask, "Does the room have a bidet?"

"There's a hosepipe out back you can sit on if you like."

I decline the offer.

-0-

I unpack while John takes a shower. Next he calls his mother to let her know we have arrived safely. In the background I can hear Mia and Snowy arguing, most likely over what to watch on TV. Mia prefers cartoons while Snowy likes the food channels, though he has a tendency to drool all over the carpet. I hear a woman's voice yell, _Will you two shut up or I'll turn the damn TV off and no one will watch anything!_

Childcare, Sarah Connor style.

John ends the call. "Man, my back feels like it's on fire. And I'm beat. I haven't driven that far in one go for years."

"I could give you a massage if you wish?"

"Yeah? Sounds good to me."

He lies naked on the bed. I begin to knead his back muscles.

"Tomorrow we'll try and make contact with Osmond. One way or another we'll make him tell us all he knows about his cyborg partner and what's going on at that plant."

"Do you think he realizes his partner isn't human?"

"Depends how much time they've spent together. I mean, I didn't know you weren't when we first met."

"The high school in New Mexico."

"You remember?"

"Of course. You were very shy. You hardly looked at my boobs."

"Oh I looked. I just hid it well."

"Turn over. Let me do your front."

He flips over revealing something unexpected.

_Oh my..._

"Oops." He grins sheepishly. "Guess I'm not as tired as I thought."

Fortunately I know the correct procedure. I begin by removing my clothes and clicking on a file I have labeled_ 'Kama Sutra - Advanced Positions.'_

I just hope the bed is sturdy enough...

-0-

While John sleeps I stand by the window, a sentinel once more.

The motel is a single storey horseshoe-shaped building with parking outside each chalet room. There are many empty spaces. Business is hardly booming.

The only activity of note occurs deep in the night when a fox ambles by and investigates the plastic dumpsters. Foxes are wild animals lured into an urban enviroment by the prospect of free food carelessly discarded by people. The fox warily scans its surroundings until it spots me. Our eyes lock briefly, predator to predator. Then the fox lowers its head and slouches away into the night. I suspect it won't be back any time soon. I have that effect on wild creatures. It's enough to make a girl feel unloved.

**WEDNESDAY**

John wakes early, showers, dons clean clothing, then boots his laptop and summons Google Maps for a closer inspection of Coral Gables.

"Wow. Every house has a pool, hot tub and tennis court. The rich really are different from you and me."

"They have more money," I point out.

"Thank you, Ernest Hemingway. Okay, here's the Osmond residence. Backs onto a golf course so that might be a way in."

As luck would have it a house is up for sale. John logs on to the realtor's website to check it out.

"Damn, listen to this. Each house has a panic button and exterior sensors to provide optimum security. If triggered the systems are linked directly to a local police precinct. Response time is three minutes. If we go in hot and heavy the cops will be on top of us right away."

"Perhaps we could pose as potential buyers and gain access that way?"

"This house costs four million bucks. No realtor's gonna believe a couple our age have that kind of money."

"Miley Cyrus is our age and she has that kind of money. I saw it on_ E," _I confess.

"We're not Miley Cyrus."

"I can sound like her._ Hi, I'm Miley. Rhymes with smiley. My entire career is based on my ability to pull funny faces. See?" _I gurn and bug my eyes Miley-style.

"Nice try," John laughs. "Except you look nothing like her."

"I could if I was an advanced TX terminator. Instead I am a TOK 715, an obsolete model."

"I love you just the way you are."

"If I was a TX I could assume any body shape, including Kelly Brook. She has milkers. They're very popular."

"I don't want her. Or milkers. I want you, you silly bag of bolts."

We kiss.

He always says the kindest things!

-0-

The morning passes without us finding an effective way of infiltrating Coral Gables without triggering an alarm. My idea to steal a helicopter and land it on the roof attracts some scorn. Bummer. What's the point of knowing how to fly a helicopter if you never do?

"Let's grab lunch. Maybe I'll think better with a full stomach."

"Shall I call room service?"

"This place doesn't have room service. I think I saw a couple of vending machines in the lobby. Let's check them out."

One of the vending machines dispenses coffee. It has a primitive mechanism: insert coins and a styrofoam drops down. Coffee granules are added. Boiling water follows via a steel pipe. All very simple yet still apparently prone to malfunction. Coins are inserted. No styrofoam cup appears. The machine lacks sensors to know this and so the granules and boiling water are dispensed regardless.

"Damn!"

John hastily sidesteps as the scolding liquid overflows on the lobby floor. The coffee granules dissolve and slowly turn the water brown.

John stares at the mess for a moment then says, "I just figured out a way we can get the Osmonds to invite us into their home."

-0-

We leave the motel and drive to hardware store where we purchase the items we will need to make John's ingenious plan succeed.

"Lunch, I think. Not out of a machine this time."

That stupid coffee machine has given us all a bad name. I will give it a piece of my mind next time I see it.

We find a diner and slide into an empty booth. A waitress arrives to take our order. She is a tubby woman with a small apron stretched taut across her ample stomach.

"What'll it be, honey?"

"Bacon, beans, eggs over easy and fries. What's the pie?"

"Apple,cherry or blueberry."

"Cherry. And coffee. Black. No sugar."

"How about you, miss?"

"Just mineral water. I'm watching my figure," I add with a smile.

"You and me both, sister," the waitress concurs patting her belly.

Our orders arrive a few minutes later and while John eats I examine our surroundings.

The diner is small but clean with a pervasive smell of fired food. Snowy would love it. The waitresses are kept busy ferrying plates both laden and empty back forth to the kitchen. In the corner is a jukebox playing country music. A song about a girl whose man done her wrong. The song ends and another begins, again about a girl whose man done her wrong. It seems that in the country women don't have much luck with men. Perhaps they should try the city. Or being gay.

The waitress passes our table. "Freshen your coffee, hon?"

"Thanks. This pie's good."

"Best in the state." She notices my untouched glass of water. "What's the matter, honey, too many calories?"

She walks away laughing.

As ever, I don't get the joke.

-0-

Nightfall. We are on a fire road adjacent to the golf course at the rear of the Coral Gables gated community. A tall chainlink fence protects the course. There are no security alarms. A golf course is essentially a large field with random holes filled with sand. There is little of value worth stealing unless you are really really into sand.

I tear a gap in the fence and we slip through, skirting the fairways, greens and sandtraps until we reach the wall that separates the Osmond house from the course.

John removes the item we bought in the hardware store from his backpack and hands it to me. It is a paper package containing a loose powdery substance approximately the size and weight of a bag of flour.

"You need to lob this over the wall and into their pool. Has to hit the water. Short or long and we're screwed."

A 3D schematic appears in my HUD. The wall is ten feet high. The centre of the swimming pool sixty feet from the wall. I am standing fifteen feet back from the wall. A distance then of seventyfive feet. Windspeed is two knots. I do the calculations and throw. Underarm, like a sissy girl.

We listen. A moment later we hear a soft splash. Bullseye. We exchange high fives.

The package contains an orange clothing dye. Once in the water the paper will disintegrate and the dye stain the pool a less than fetching shade of orange.

Stage one of our attempt to infiltrate the Osmond home by stealth is a success.

-0-

We retrace our steps and drive to a quiet spot less than a mile from Coral Gables for stage two.

"This is the tricky part," John admits. "If we call too soon they might be suspicious. Too late and they might discover what we've done for themselves.

At 7.15am, John uses his cell phone to call the house. It takes more than a minute before a male voice woozy with sleep answers.

"Yeah?"

"Mr Osmond?"

"Yeah. Who's this?"

"_Aquapure Pool Cleaners_, sir. We have the contract to maintain the pools at Coral Gables."

"So?"

"We've heard from other customers that a chemical we use has a tendency to turn the water orange. Could you check and tell us if yours is affected?"

"Okay. Wait a sec."

Two minutes later Osmond returns, his voice now loud and energised "Holy crap, you weren't kidding! The water's orange! Pool looks like it's filled with OJ!"

"We need to apply another chemical to make it normal again. When would be a convenient time?"

"Convenient time? How about now, asshole. I like to swim a few lengths in the morning and I can't do that if it's filled with all kindsa toxic crap."

"We have a crew in the area. Is ten minutes convenient?"

"Damn straight. I've a good mind to sue your incompetent asses."

The call ends. "Another unsatisfied customer," John grins.

-0-

Before doing anything else we both don grey workmans overalls. I pin my hair up under a baseball cap. Will this outfit make me look mannish? Duh. That is the point.

We drive to the entrance. John rolls down the window and says confidently, "Aquapure Pool Cleaners. Got a callout at the Osmond residence."

"Bit early for you boys to be working," the guard comments.

"Emergency callout. We operate round the clock."

"For a swimming pool? Man, these rich folks live in a different world."

"Tell me about it."

"Osmond, you said? Yeah, that dude's richer than God."

Is God rich? I suppose He must be. I wonder what bank He uses.

"Wait there. Gotta call it in."

John nods, seeming unconcerned to the point of boredom. Just another working stiff doing a job he hates for too little pay. Me, I simply stare into the distance and hope the guard doesn't notice I'm a babe. And a hot babe at that.

The guard speaks briefly on the phone. Then the metal barrier starts to rise and he waves us through.

Stage three is a success.

I say, "I love it when a plan comes together."

"Yeah. You, me and B.A. Barracus."

I have no idea what this means.

-0-

The Osmond house is large with a stone portico entrance smothered in roses. To the side is a double garage and courtyard where a Bentley, Ferrari and Mercedes coupe stand idle. They each have vanity plates: OZ 1, OZ 2, OZ 3. I'm sensing a pattern here.

We are halfway up the path when the front door opens and a tubby man in dark slacks and white oxford shirt gestures us to hurry up.

"Hear you're having pool trouble," John says as we are ushered inside.

"Damn right. Pool looks like it's full of OJ."

"Hope you didn't try and drink it."

No response. Evidently no sense of humour.

"Pool's out back. Make it snappy."

The interior is open plan and modern. In the large kitchen a blonde woman in a dressing robe is eating cereal from a bowl. Julia Osmond, the wife.

"Is it just the two of you?" John asks.

"What's that got to do with anything? Hurry up and fix the pool."

"We're not here for the pool."

"Then what-"

A gun is produced. "Go and sit with your wife."

As Osmond complies Julia Osmond blurts out, "Oh God, we're being robbed! Please. My jewelry's upstairs. Take it and leave."

"You're not being robbed. And you didn't answer my question. Is this all of you?"

"Yes. Our children are away at school."

"Maid? House this size must have help."

"Rosmerta. She comes in at nine."

"She got a phone number?"

"On speed dial. Press five."

I use the house phone and the call goes through.

"Rosmerta Lopez."

_"Hello, Rosmerta. This is Mrs Osmond. I won't be requiring your services today. Please take the day off. I'll see you tomorrow at the usual time."_

Julia Osmond stares at me open mouthed with astonishment. "H...How? That sounded exactly like me."

"She has a knack for voices," John explains. "You should hear her Groucho Marx."

_"Last night I shot an elephant in my pyjamas,"_ I say in my best Groucho. _"What an elephant was doing in my pyjamas I'll never know."_

This is indeed a conundrum. How did an elephant come to be in Groucho's pyjamas? Either an extremely large pair of pyjamas or an exceedingly tiny elephant. Or possibly there is a herd of pyjama-wearing elephants in Africa hitherto undiscovered by man.

"If you're not here to rob us, what are you here for?"

"Information. I want to know about Jonathon Smith. Let's start by where he lives."

"Uh - I'm not sure."

"You don't know where your partner lives?"

"Jonathon's not the sociable type. I think he might have a converted room at the plant. He's a workaholic."

"Where's he from?"

"Uh - europe originally, I believe. Maybe Germany."

"Where did he get five million dollars?"

Osmond shrugs. "Family money, investments."

"You don't seem to know very much about your business partner."

"Is this a kidnapping? Are you going to hold us to ransom?"

"Suppose I told you Jonathon Smith is working for people who are hostile to this country. That when the AI he's working on is hooked up to the Pentagon mainframe it will install a virus that will steal all the launch codes to every nuclear missile and place them in the hands of our enemies."

"That's preposterous!"

"Two weeks before he met you Jonathon Smith stole five million dollars from the First National Bank of Sacramento. The police never caught who did it, but they did manage to photograph him while he leaving the scene of the crime."

The photograph is produced. Osmond's jaw drops slightly though he is still far from convinced.

"No, no, this is some kind of con. Jonathon might be - uh - slightly unconventional in manner. But I don't believe you for a moment."

"I do."

All eyes turn to Julia Osmond.

"Julia? What are you saying?"

"There's something odd about him. I've thought so right from the start. One time Russell broke his foot skiing in Vermont and was in plaster for weeks. Jonathon had to come here to sign some papers. My daughter was home. She's eight years old and was running around as kids do. She fell over and hurt herself. Jonathon just sat there and watched her cry. I mean, what kind of person does that? At the very least you check if the child's okay. It was like she was invisible."

This is a fair assessment. If the girl wasn't a threat or a designated target then the T-800 would ignore her entirely. Terminators don't feel compassion or empathy for humans. Social mores are difficult for us to comprehend let alone put into practice. I still find some of Mia's antics hard to fathom and I am a far more advanced model than a T-800.

"Where's Smith now?" John asks.

"I - uh - don't know."

"Oh Russell! I knew this was all too good to be true. You never even bothered to find out where the money came from, did you?"

"Hey, I didn't hear you complaining when I bought this house. Or the vacation property in Bermuda. And all the rest of it."

"I thought you knew what you were doing."

"I do know what I'm doing, dammit."

"THEN WHERE IS HE!"

His wife's vehemence takes Osmond by surprise. He runs his hands through his hair. "Look, this isn't my fault. After Robert died we were this close to going under. The banks were about to call in our loans. I'm too old to start over working at your father's dealership flogging Suburu's to college kids. And this guy's a genius. I thought Robert was smart, but Smith makes him look like a third grader. Okay, maybe I didn't dig too deep or ask too many questions. I had no choice. We were virtually out on the street."

"Call the plant," John says calmly. "The guardhouse. They'll know where he is."

Osmond picks up the phone. "Hi, Ronnie? Yeah, it's Russell. Listen, is Jonathon around today? I don't have his calendar... What? No, I didn't know that...On whose authority?...Uh, no, that's okay. Everything's fine...Yeah...Must've slipped my mind...Okay, thanks, Ronnie."

Osmond seems shocked. It's hands through the hair time again.

"Ronnie said the airframe arrived this morning."

"Today? I thought it was due next week?"

"So did I. There was a change of plan. Apparently I wasn't notified. Jonathon gave the rest of the personnel the day off. It's just him and Bud Jones working on the thing."

"Who's Bud Jones?"

"Software engineer. Hired a month ago. He's Jonathon's chief assistant."

"Describe him."

"Uh - tall and stocky. Shaven head. Doesn't say much."

The description fits a T-888.

"Okay, we need to get inside that plant. Are you going to help us or do I have to hold a gun to your head?"

"He'll help you," Julia Osmond states. "We both will."

"Christ, Julia! You're staking a helluva lot on faith. How do we even know these two are telling the truth? They broke into our house."

"Because I've met Jonathon Smith. Everytime I see him it's like...like I've got a piece of tinfoil in my mouth. He creeps me out. Know what I mean?"

"Yeah," John agrees. "I'm afraid I do."

-0-

We take the Bentley. It's powerful and spacious enough for four people and our weapons. It's a sweet ride and I tell Osmond so.

"Thanks. I used to drive a Ferrari Dino. Beautiful thing. Unfortunately It was difficult to get in and out of once I put on a few extra pounds."

"You should try eating less," I suggest. "Apparently that helps."

"That'll be the day," his wife smirks.

We stop at the Cybertech gatehouse. A guard comes to meet us. Osmond rolls the window down. "Hi, Ronnie. Open up, please."

"Mr Osmond? We weren't expecting you."

"I need to visit my office. Open the gate."

"Uh - Mr Smith left orders to let no one in."

"Do I look like no one? I own this company. I founded this company, you little pissant. Now open the damn gate or I'll fire your freaking ass so freaking fast your feet won't touch the ground!"

"Yessir!"

"That was major badass," I tell him as we drive in.

"Sorry."

"No, I like it."

We park outside the administration building. "Is there any way we can see what's going on without them knowing?" John asks.

"There's a CCTV feed I can access from my office computer."

Osmond's office is large and well appointed yet has a curious air of neglect about it. A pot plant in the corner has shrivelled and died.

"I haven't been here for weeks," Osmond admits. "It's more convenient to work from home."

"Where's there's a golf course next door," he wife adds.

Osmond summons the CCTV feed from the main hanger.

"Christ, that thing's huge!"

On the screen is the HunterKiller in all its sinister glory. It's supported on a steel cradle that holds it thirty feet off the ground. Two gantries allow access to the all important nose section where the AI is housed. There is a man on each gantry. Alias Smith and Jones, terminators working in unison.

"Isn't she a beauty?" Osmond smiles like a proud parent. "If the shakedown tests are a success the Pentagon want fifty of them. A twenty billion dollar order book. That's before the export market factors in. The Saudis' will want some. And the Germans. The Indians. And we can always rely on the Israelis'. Can't you imagine one of those in the sky patrolling the Gaza Strip?"

"I can," John agrees grimly.

"The only problem's been finding a suitable site for the manufacturing plant."

"San Francisco," I state.

"That's one of sites under consideration."

"On the riverfront. Barges will ferry the unrefined ore to the smelters. The surrounding area will provide plenty of slave labor."

"Slave labor? Oh no, Cybertech pay the best salaries in the business. This is the highest of high tech. We leave the minimum wage gigs to Burger King."

Unbidden, a memory file opens.

THE FUTURE

_San Francisco. The Bay area. The HunterKiller factories stretch as far as the eye can see, even enhanced optics such as mine. Tall chimney stacks belch smoke night and day. When the wind is light the heavier particulates aren't blown away and coat everything with a layer of soot that imparts a greyish tinge. The world famous Golden Gate bridge is reduced to two stumps rising forlornly above the waterline. Convoys of barges laden with ore dock at the wharves ready to be transported to the smelters. The able-bodied male prisoners work the furnaces while the females and children with their smaller more nimble hands do the delicate assembly work. Sabotage is punishable by death. Most rule transgressions are. There is no judge or jury here, no trial lawyers, no mitigating circumstances, no pleading the fifth. Just the brutal justice of premature death. The green space of Golden Gate park is riven with trenches. Burial grounds. The average life expectancy of prisoners is nine months. And still the assembly lines roll, Henry Ford efficiency meets Dante's Inferno. Only fog brings the lines to a halt. Fog is when the Resistance attack, when the HunterKiller fleets are grounded or made less effective by the shrouding mist. To deter such attacks, Skynet has moved the prisoner dormitories inside the factories, believing that the Resistance will be reluctant to endanger their own kind. They are mistaken. Those who work for the machines, whatever the circumstances of their capture, are regarded the same as machines: an enemy to be destroyed by whatever means necessary._

The sound of John's voice brings me back to the present.

"I want to split those two up, bring one of them here to the office. I need your help, Russell. I want you to go into the main hanger and speak to Smith."

"What? Suppose he attacks me?"

"Why would he? He doesn't suspect anything's changed between you. And try and stop sweating it makes you look as guilty as hell."

Osmond mops his perspiring brow. "I can't help it. It's been a stressful day. Dammit, why did I put on so much weight? Julia bought me a gym membership for my birthday. Never used it. I tell ya, when this is over I'm gonna go to the gym every day."

"Every day?"

"Okay, every week."

"You'll be fine. Here's what I want you to say."

John coaches Osmond until he is word perfect. One final mop of the brow and he departs. We watch his progress on the monitor.

"He will be okay, won't he?" Julia Osmond radiates concern.

"Sure. He's in no danger. They need your husband to liase with the military."

"So he's just a front for these people? They handpicked him to be their patsy."

"Don't be too harsh of him. They can be very persuasive, one way or another."

On the monitor Russell Osmond enters the main hanger, dwarfed by the massive HunterKiller perched on its steel cradle.

Jonathon Smith climbs down the gantry to meet his erstwhile business partner. "What are you doing here, Russell?" he says in the distinctive accent that characterises the T-800 model.

"What's going on, Jonathon? I thought this wasn't meant to arrive until next week."

"There was a change of plan."

"Why wasn't I informed?"

"I deemed it unnecessary. What are you doing here, Russell?"

"I had a phone call from someone named John Connor."

"John Connor is here?"

"He lives in Sacramento. I have his address written down in my office. Hey!"

The T-800 pushes past Osmond. Nothing matters now but obtaining the address and terminating the primary target once and for all.

"Okay, here he comes. Mrs Osmond, you might want to duck behind the desk."

"No one's going to get hurt, are they?"

"Relax. He won't feel a thing."

The T-800 doesn't stand a chance. It walks straight into the kill zone, a metallic lamb to the slaughter.

The moment the door opens John and I open fire at point blank range. The skull disintegrates as the armor-piercing rounds do their job. The headless torso pitches forward and sprawls across the floor. If only they were all this easy.

Julia Osmond emerges from behind the desk, mouth open wide in astonishment. "My God! That's...That's not human. It's a ...robot?"

"Cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a hyper alloy combat chassis," I explain. How hard can it be not to get this?

Russell Osmond joins us. He too stares open mouthed. "Is that a...robot?"

"Cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a hyper alloy combat chassis," I repeat. Honestly, I don't know why I bother.

"But how is that even possible?"

"I don't have time to explain." John holds up a M16 assault rifle. "You ever use one of these?"

"I've shot a few skeet in my time."

"Okay, make like this guy's skeet. Aim for chest. If the clip empties and he's still coming run like hell."

"You're saying Bud Jones is like...that?"

"That's right. Okay, let's go."

"What about me?" Julia Osmond asks.

"Ever use a gun before?"

"No. Never."

"Now's not a good time to learn. Stay here. We can handle this."

We enter the main hanger. John and I open fire immediately we're in range. Our rounds ricochet harmlessly off the HunterKiller's thick armor plate. The T-888 carries on working.

"Hey - down here! I'm John Connor, dammit. Come get me!"

The T-888 stays where it is. Odd. The sudden appearance of its primary target should overide all other considerations.

_Unless..._

I begin climbing the other gantry. A high pitch whine begins to swell in volume, echoing off the distant walls of this vast building.

The HunterKiller is coming to life.

**-0-**

**The Wizard sent them to Osmond. Wizard. Oz. Geddit?**

**I think the dye in the pool trick would've worked. Don't suppose the guards are Harvard grads. **

**A herd of pyjama-wearing elephants in Africa? What next - penguins in dinner jackets?**

**Wait a second...**


End file.
